The Dragon's Soldier
by twistedthicket1
Summary: John is a reluctant soldier in the Queen's Army, hoping to pay his medical school degree with three years of service. He's just been told to pick out a Dragon from the Kennels to train and serve beside in the War in Afghanistan. More than a little afraid and yet fascinated by the creatures, he just hopes he doesn't end up barbequed... (full summary inside)
1. preface To Remember, To Forget

**My other account is on AO3, but I will slowly be updating here as well ^.^ if you like and want to read ahead go to my other account! please tell me what you think! :3**

**Summary:**

_When the dragons "came out" to the rest of the world, nobody expected the resulting War that broke out between Humans and Beasts. Both sides afraid and suspicious of each other, Humans drove Dragons into slavery, imprisoning them and turning their children into weapons for the military. Forced into hiding, many Dragons disguised themselves as Human and kept their secrets locked away, awaiting for the day when the royal blood line long since vanished would once again reappear and lay waste to the Humans that oppressed them._

_John is a reluctant soldier in the Queen's Army, hoping to pay his medical school degree with three years of service. He's just been told to pick out a Dragon from the Kennels to train and serve beside in the War in Afghanistan. More than a little afraid and yet fascinated by the creatures, he just hopes he doesn't end up barbequed..._

_Sherlock Holmes can't remember his past, but one thing is for certain: He is never going to become some Human's pet. However John Watson doesn't exactly seem like the typical Human._

_Can Dragon and Man really get along? Or even more, become friends?_

* * *

**Exerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Dragon (Noun): **__A dragon is a legendary creature, typically with serpentine or reptilian traits that features in many different cultures. Since the dawn of time, Dragons have been the subject of both legend and speculation, deriving from many different traditions and originally thought to have been of mythical descent. However with modern science, the "Dragon Gene" has been proven to be a mutation of the genetic strand of a Human, allowing the subject to "Shift" into a beast-like state at will. (See page 104 for more details on "Shifting"). Though many attempts have been made to "cure" subjects of the Dragon disease, it appears to be a genetic condition. As it is today there exists no verifiable treatment or cure for the exists many types or "species" of Dragons, though it is dependable upon the subject's living environment and heritage as to which they will transform into. The three main categories are:_

_English._

_Chinese._

_Northern._

_It is a life-long condition. Little is known as to the reasons why it exists, though there is speculation on it being the next evolutionary step in the Human chain. (for more information on the theory, see section B page 338)_

He doesn't know a life outside of The Collars and The Chains.

A part of him wonders if it's where he was born. What he was born in.

He knows it isn't however. Knows because if he was then he'd be like the others that were born in The Kennels. Savage beasts, unable to think past the next meal passed to them in their cages and unable to Shift into their Human forms. Also he has a name to call himself, unlike the ones born inside the enclose of steel walls and wire mesh that holds them all. Sometimes if he closes his eyes he thinks he can hear somebody calling to him using it. Softly speaking it in his ear. Then he wakes up and he snarls at his own visions, because they leave reality tinged with such hopelessness and disappointment. He curls his wings about him then, blocking out the harsh lights that make his sensitive eyes dazzled and tries to sleep. Tries to remember what sleep felt like not laced with aching wounds and all-absorbing hunger. He tries to recall what grass felt like under his feet, and what skin felt like as it brushed against his face in a caress. It helps the four walls of his Kennel dissolve, fade away as he retreats into the Mind-Palace of his imaginings. What he thinks he should remember.

He thinks the sun would be warm.

Snow would be cold.

Somehow, that seems right. He feels like he once held snow in his hands.

Felt sun on his cheeks.

He thinks rain would be wet, as logically the water they sometimes douse him with to clean him was wet. Cold too, probably.

But other than basic, instinctive things, he feels like he is missing a piece. A chunk of a puzzle he has no hope of getting back because the Kennel takes it away, as does the whining and clawing of his people around him. It drills its' way into his mind, and it takes everything he has inside not to howl with them. Not to lose himself in the animal that lingers just under the shell of a Human skin.

Sherlock Holmes wants to forget.

And yet in order to forget, he knows a part of him needs to remember.

He never intended to join the Army.

In fact, John Hamish Watson had originally as a child wanted nothing to do with fighting. As a small boy, he had been the kid in his little run-down neighbourhood to avoid anything to do with a scuffle, having seen one too many between his old man and his Mother for him to have the taste for blood. He grew up instead often pulling his older sister out of fights, like when Harry was younger and had attacked Timothy Banks for calling her ugly. Later, he had protected her from the same Timothy Banks when he had pulled a knife on her when he found out she was shagging his sister. Maybe that was why John originally developed a Healer's complex, because he watched so many people get hurt in the little ghetto district he had grown up in. Wounds were a constant thing, a telling passage of time, and John found a comfort in being the one who fixed them. There was a kind of completion in sewing together a cut, and a solace found in taking care of the ill as they lay before you. It was the knowledge that you were helping someone, the faith that came in the steady rhythm of your own hands working to fix things. Some nights it was the only thing that kept John from going absolutely insane as he heard the fighting going on downstairs, or watched his Father drink himself into oblivion.

At least if people decided to ruin their own lives, John couldn't be held responsible this way. Because if he did his best to heal them and they still didn't make it, at least he had tried.

No, the Army only called him originally because like many young people growing up in the Slum Districts, he was dirt poor and couldn't afford his next meal let alone an expensive Medical Degree. Studying and scholarships could only get you so far, and though John was an avid student and a hard worker, he still only just managed to scrape by as most of the time he couldn't afford the text books or even new pencils and pens. Really going to War seemed like the only option, especially with the way it was advertised everywhere with posters and propaganda signs that decorated the brick walls of the Slums better than the greying paint underneath them. In fact it was during Career Day, when he was checking out the military booth stand that he first laid eyes on one of them.

A creature he had heard about and yet never seen.

He remembered the creature even years later, mostly because if it weren't for the leather collar circling her neck, he wouldn't have thought her to be anything other than Human at all.

He and his friend, Mike Stamford had been both eyeing the table all afternoon. Mike not because of a money issue since he had a fairly wealthy Grandmother, but because he had a childlike enthusiasm for War that only showed in people who had never actually experienced a battle before in their lives. He and John had gotten along well since meeting last year in the same biology class, and they both had slightly destructive siblings. Though Jerome had a drug problem instead of an alcohol one like Harry.

The man that had stood at the table with all of the military pamphlets and sign-up regulations and rules was a burly man, someone who when John looked at him he was reminded immediately of being shaped a bit like a barrel. However most of it was muscle, and there were definite signs about him of a man who had seen fighting in the scars on his arms and the tan of his skin. He held her chain lazily, as if it was more for show than anything else. John's eyes were immediately drawn to the woman beside him.

Right away he knew she was a Dragon.

Everyone could tell, the collar about her neck was a dead give-away. It was industrial, metal and leather, and it was hooked to the leash the man held as if he stood a chance at stopping something like a Dragon from killing someone if he had a mind. Of course, the real security was the fact that John could see the electrical glow flashing in the ring about her pale throat, threatening shocks if she were to suddenly lash out and attack for some reason. Her eyes were as pale as a sky just before Dawn crests over a horizon, and her cheeks were high and angular. She had silver-blonde hair cascading down over her shoulders, and it had a slight wave as if suggesting it was used to being braided for battle. Rosebud lips were pressed into an unreadable line, and her pale skin was in stark contrast to the green-brown military uniform she wore. Upon feeling John's gaze upon her, she stared back. The young man saw in those eyes an empty sort of calculation, and he felt something in the back of his neck crawl upon those pale irises meeting his own. Though her face was blank, John got the distinct impression that she was not at ease. Her limbs may have been slack, but there was a feral way about her that seemed to make most people either eye her with curiosity as he had done or shrink away in fear.

She was beautiful, and yet John was also aware from the start that she was highly deadly.

In the end, she had been what had drew him to the table.

The man introduced himself as Captain Jeoffrey Briggs, and he immediately noticed the two teens' obvious fascination with the specimen beside him. He grinned in an easy sort of way, and though his voice was gruff like he was used to shouting orders, he was quite friendly.

"Britain's finest right here. This is my Damelia. She's an English Dragon, which ya can tell by the colourin'. The eastern ones tend to have darker hair, though all of 'em have the fair complexion. I've had her since I was sixteen, when I first joined the ranks."

Damelia didn't acknowledge them other than the way all slaves were forced to. She bowed once lowly then straightened, apparently preferring to observe the hordes of students for any sign of danger than to talk to two gangly strangers ogling her like she was property. John immediately felt a little embarrassed for being so obvious, but it was hard not to stare. Not just because of her beauty, which was definitely a factor, but because of her unnatural stillness. She stood with an utter frigidity about her, not a single muscle twitching in even the tiniest way.

"How long do you serve until you get one? I hear they're right expensive." Mike said plaintively, clearly just as curious about it as John was. Briggs stretched a little lazily, tilting his head to the side so he could work out a crick in his neck. He scratched one side of his head as if thinking on the answer.

"Depends on where you're posted. Low-risk operations means you'll have to wait at least a few years. However since you two are medical boys chances are you'll be sent to the really important lines. I'd say by your first year."

His friend grinned excitedly at the answer, but John frowned. He didn't like the idea of being sent into such a dangerous mission. Then again if he could help people, he'd do it. After all the only one who would miss him back here would by Harry, and she hardly noticed his absence most of the time. Still his cautious side warned him to question things. To not get caught up in the bluster and bravado that came with the whispering lies of being a War Hero.

"When you say dangerous... How dangerous do you mean?"

"Being medics will mean you won't be put on the front lines most likely. You probably won't see much battle at all. After all, if one man can patch up fifteen other men, they tend to put the fifteen other men out first. Plus with Dragons now being used as Defensive Partners, mortality rates have dropped significantly."

Briggs grinned, and though John didn't totally believe what he was saying his next words sealed the deal for him.

"Plus serve three years and we'll pay for your medical education."

John didn't think twice as he stuck out his hand, the chance of getting out of the Slums a one in a million chance he wasn't about to refuse.

To forget his past life and embrace a new identity.

It was better than a magic spell.

"Deal."

Beside them, Damelia looked down and away at her pristine black boots.

Her smirk of pity was left unseen.


	2. Enemies

**Second chapter in... :3 happiness... Please let me know what you think! **

* * *

**Exerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes**.

**Northern Dragons (Species): **_Northern Dragons are perhaps one of the oldest species of Dragons to have existed. Given this information it makes sense to deduce that there are many sub-species within this category. The Term "Northern" is actually a misnomer, as Northern Dragons live anywhere and everywhere all over the world, provided it is a mountainous region. They are a species that are highly adaptable, and are distinct from their Chinese and English cousins by their large feet and hands made for handling snow and rock, pale blue eyes and their ability to change the colour of their scales. Northern Dragons tend to have aggressive temperaments, partly because within the Dragon hierarchy they are considered the ;ruling' class being the oldest species. Many Northerns were hunted for the remarkable healing qualities of their horns (See Section C page 778 for more information) As a result, they have become a bit of a novelty for Humans, their eggs often sold on the black market as "pets"._

_Make no mistake though, Northerns are every bit as dangerous as their other Dragon cousins, and without proper care and treatment as with all Dragons a Human risks them turning "savage". (See page 55 for details on "savage" state)._

Dragons began to become standard-issue weapons in a sense for the Queen's Army around the time that John turned twelve. As a child, he had imagined great hulking beasts that breathed malignant black smoke and slitted gold eyes like the stories his sister used to read to him. Tales of The Hobbit came to mind as he grew up, of monstrous creatures and glittering hoards of jewels hidden away in underground waterfalls that shimmered with black magic. As he got older however, he learned that a Dragon in its full form was indeed terrifying and monstrous, but that a Dragon disguised as a Human was far, far worse.

He grew up in school hearing about how to best defend oneself if a Dragon were to attack, curled up to news reports showing the War casualties and how many Humans lay dead in the streets. Especially in the really heavily populated places like New York, where there were actual Dragon Gangs that roamed the streets. Being at War with an entire other subspecies of creatures had painted John's childhood with colourful doses of fear and grudging respect for an animal that could look like a four foot tall woman and yet rip you in half with their bare hands. It was like a tiger, or perhaps a vicious dog. Treat it with respect and distance and he was sure it would do the same to you. That's what the Army did in the end with the prisoners of War they gathered. Turned them into intelligent, weapon-like pets.

No big deal.

No big deal at all...

At least, that is what he told himself when he was confronted with the fact that he was actually finished several months of back-breaking training and was now expected to actually visit a Kennel to pick a breed. He groaned as he looked about the empty flat before him, hardly daring to believe that the military had paid to have it bought for him. The benefit of being in the Army during wartime he supposed, but it was certainly a step up from where he had once lived. District Three was a military-based area in central London, and John had used to be able to just make out the outline of it at sunrise from his bedroom window. Now he stood inside the empty flat before him and winced at the loud sound of traffic coming from the outside window, and wondered if the place didn't feel just a little bit lonely and too large for him.

**221 B**, it had a charming enough ring to it. Baker Street from what little John had seen he thought it looked like a nice enough neighbourhood. Low crime rate, and his clothes were considered worn but not shabby compared to the other people he had met. There was a really good Italian restaurant not too far away, and a Tesco's that had some pretty good sandwiches. John had eaten one on his way here, finishing off the last crust of ham and cheese just as he had bumped into the landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

She was an incredibly warm woman, and though she had to have been in her seventies she moved about the place with a kind of Mothering presence that reminded John distinctly of his own Mum when he had been very small. It was a calming atmosphere, and though he had started out being fairly nervous being in a new District and a new City, the knot of worry slowly loosened as she harried about him, doing chores even while stating emphatically that she was 'Not his Housekeeper!'.

His stuff was all being shipped tonight, so nothing really sat in the flat at all save for a table that the old resident had left behind, and two solitary beds upstairs. He supposed it would be needed, after all if he was going to be having a Dragon roaming the place he would have to probably give it a place to make itself comfortable. Somehow he felt like a creature with that kind of power wouldn't take well to sleeping on a sofa.

...Did Dragons sleep?

John paused as he wondered at the question to himself. He and Mike had both been given pamphlets from the NDTF (National Dragon Training Facility) but he had hardly began reading it before it had all felt too surreal. Now he went hunting for his bag that he had discarded earlier by the table in the kitchen, palming the heavy pages of folded paper that had the cover of a rather aggressive-looking English Dragon snarling on the cover. It's title read, ironically enough,

How To Train Your Dragon!

Sitting on the creaky chair in the kitchen, John began to read into the night to distract him from the overwhelming note of panic singing lowly in his gut.

Just like a computer manual.

Except this computer would have claws...

Not to mention a possible taste for Human flesh...

Sherlock knows that he will probably be put down soon.

He knows because of the way his Handlers look at him, with a mix of cruel amusement and gloating revenge for the many years of enslavement in which he's fought them every step of the way. His wing ached today, in that place where he couldn't quite reach, and he was irritable and moody. It was probably raining outside. He wondered what it tasted like, if it was clear and cool like some part of him seemed to believe it was. Throat suddenly dry, he licked his lips and knelt at the puddle dripping into his Kennel. The water is flecked with rust from the pipes and tastes sour and metallic, but he doesn't much care. It relieves the ache in his mouth and tongue. His tongue darting across his lips as he finished to wipe away any excess water, he let his green-blue eyes flick lightly over the darkness of his Cell.

Such a tiny world. If he stretched his wings, they felt cramped in their confinements. He couldn't even fully transform, stuck in his Halfling state or his Human disguise. The collar chafed against the bare white expanse of his neck, and he wondered briefly if he would miss life. Sherlock of course wasn't sure what came after time on Earth if anything at all, but somehow he wished he could at least spread his wings fully. Since he was a child his Crates and later Cages were always just a little too small to do it. Just once, he would like to know what it felt like to have the freedom enough to imagine the lost act of flying.

Dragons with temperament issues were often put down. If they were not 'picked' by people because of aggression issues or perhaps a birth defect, then they were put on the Red List. Because Dragons were reasonably rare creatures, they were not put down for another five years after their initiation onto said list, but Sherlock always seemed to push the envelope for being borderline dangerous. He snarled when the Handlers touched him, not that he could help it since they often touched his bad wing. He also rarely ate the food offered to him, so he was skinnier than most of the other Dragons. He made sure to look menacing and not in a good way when the soldiers or the rich came looking for Slaves to take.

He did everything he could possibly do to ensure an early death in the Kennels. Because if this was life in all of its glory, it was so boringly painful he didn't want to live it.

John and Mike decided they would go together. After all, both of them had to pick one out, and thought neither of them were willing to quite admit it they were both more than a little bit wary of meeting their Dragon for the first time. They were offered a drive by a Lieutenant Dodge to the Central Kennel, a woman with a baby sort of face but eyes that seemed hard and glinted fiercely in the light of her car. She had her Dragon; Cerioth drive them towards the outskirts of the City. John couldn't help but notice the way the woman's hand rested at all times on the Stun button for the creature's collar just in case, though Cerioth barely acknowledged their presence. There was a decidedly subdued presence around him, almost meek.

John wondered just how many times he had been Disciplined that such a powerful creature could be reduced to a serving boy.

He also wondered if he would have the level of steel to turn his Dragon in that direction.

According to the pamphlet there were three levels of Dragon. White Card, Yellow Card and Red Card. It was a system designed to have new owners know easily what level of aggression and obstinacy they wanted to deal with. White Cards were mostly young Dragons, babies or infants or extremely docile-tempered personalities. Usually these were for beginners just getting into the Dragon-raising world. However because John and Mike would be in the Military and their Dragons would be doing active battle with other Dragons, they were required to choose a Yellow Card at least. Yellow Cards had some aggressive tendencies, but they were overall balanced. Red Card was for the experienced only, and even then not many were chosen for Adoption. The fact was that it was their last chance, once a Dragon was put on that list they were almost certainly destined to be used as cannon fodder.

"The Handlers will tell you how to approach them. The Kennel tends to be a stressful place for them, so they'll probably be fairly skittish all things considered. Plus they'll be half-drowned so that they can't breathe fire. "Adoption" days are like that. The non-firebreathers will also be contained in their own ways too, so don't worry. They dehydrate the ones that can spit boiling water, and the ones that breathe ice are overheated. "

All neat and orderly. Like shopping for a dog.

John thought, noticing how their driver didn't react at all to the mistreatment of his brothers and sisters. Cerioth's face was actually carefully blank, like he was afraid to let any expression of any kind show on his features. The young medic wondered to himself what tier he was, and what species. He suspected Chinese, if only because of the dark hair and dark eyes. Not English definitely, and Northern's tended to have lighter irises.

Enemies and allies, all fighting on the same side. John felt a small chill run up his spine as the Dragon fixed him with a brief but cold stare in the reflection of the rear-view mirror.

Somehow, he knew for a fact that just because that Collar surrounded the Dragon's neck, didn't mean he didn't occasionally consider killing one or two Humans at least every once in a while.

No trust.

He would take the rule he had adopted from dealing with his Father then.

Tough love.

Hold them at arm's length, and be caring towards their needs but distant.

No attachments.

Less messy in the end.

It also kept John from making the mistake of considering them Human. Something he was finding he was having a very hard time doing as Cerioth's gaze slid in a reptilian way back to the road, pulling into the Kennels and leaving the engine idling for his Mistress.

The Central Kennel as it turned out, was the sort of place that made John think of fleas and excrement, of blood and other unpleasantries. On the outside it looked official enough to be sure, probably to fulfil non-existent guideline or Government requirement somewhere. The tan brick-work was functional, and there was an electric fence surrounding it in typical military fashion. However the inside was an entirely other matter, and John and Mike both were uncomfortably reminded of their homes back in the Slums as they stepped into the front office and were slapped with the sharp and crude taste of animalistic fear. It was a good thing the blonde thought, that Cerioth had been instructed to stay in the car and wait for his Mistress, because John was sure had he heard the horrible whimpering snarling beyond the front desk towards the back he would have lashes out, if not at least cowered. Perhaps it had been on purpose, as Lieutenant Dodge appeared to notice as well as her nose wrinkled in sharp distaste as she made sure to check her boots for dirt as they walked in.

The man behind the desk had a sort of oily look about him, all sharp angles and aggressive strength that was only barely hidden by the grey uniform he wore. He smiled a too-white smile at John and Mike, sensing fresh blood per se as he looked the two young men over. John felt the back of his neck prickle with instant dislike. From the scowl on Mike's face, he could tell that his friend was having similar thoughts.

Both boys had learned when to notice a rat was curled up and baring its' teeth on their path.

John suddenly wished the Lieutenant wasn't giving them such a firm glare. Or that she didn't gesture to the tazer she had about her belt.

"We've got two new recruits for the Queen's Army, Mr. Lyle, fresh out of training."

The man grinned at the use of his surname, eyeing the woman before him in such a way that made Dodge's fists tighten minutely and her voice come a little sharper as she added.

"We would like to get started as soon as possible."

He ran his tongue over his slightly too-large teeth once in acknowledgement, passing her one more glance before he clasped his long hands in front of him and gave a simpering smile to the two men beside her.

"Welcome to the Central Kennel. Nik Lyle at your service."

"Watson."

John said, not bothering to shake the man's hand.

"S-Stamford."

Mike muttered just a little bit timidly.

Mr. Lyle's eyes narrowed slightly then became very wide with feigned pleasantry, his smile stretching bigger across his face as he stood before them.

Guarding The Gateway to the back.

Like a Reaper that demanded some demented blood sacrifice for eternal treasure or youth.

It would be like the beginning to a bad legend, if the entrance didn't smell like piss and terror.

John had to suppress a slight grin, despite his discomfort.

"As I'm sure you read in your pamphlet, we here at Central Kennels only have the finest selection of Dragons, everything from Eastern Mountain Wyverns to Chinese Lake Monitors. It is a literal menagerie, and I guarantee you will find one that will suit your own unique personalities and skills just fine."

He turned then to Mike, arching a thin eyebrow and looking him over slyly.

"I see in you probably something softer. A caretaker for when you are off and abroad perhaps? Something to keep you warm on a cold Desert night?"

His eyes glittered knowingly, and Mike blushed beet red and mumbled something decidedly incoherent under his breath. John inwardly cringed. He did not see how some people could feel so comfortable shagging a monster that could rip your innards out in a heartbeat. To him it was like a gerbil trying to kiss a snake.

No.

If he wanted sex he would much rather stake his luck against Human women.

Though granted, sometimes they could be just as savage.

Lyle then turned to John, seeing the uncomfortable lock of his jaw and the tense line of his back. The blonde man thought he saw the man frown slightly, but quickly it was smoothed over with a cheesy smile and a clap on his shoulder that made him want to cringe.

"You sir, I see in you the desire for strength. Discipline. Something that follows orders well but has lethal capabilities. I definitely would advise something of English origin. Strong, dependable mounts and they aren't nearly as delicate-boned as the Chinese variety. Or as broody as the Northerns for that matter."

He chuckled like he just told some great joke, but John didn't see exactly what was so funny. He just wished the man would let him go so he didn't feel quite so claustrophobic. Seemingly sensing that he wasn't as swayed by his silken words Mr. Lyle straightened his collar firmly and seemed to adjust to business, holding out his hand in a sweeping gesture that wasn't unlike a shepherd herding a group of dull sheep into a pen.

"Right this way then, ladies and gentlemen."

John briefly felt Dodge lightly brush his shoulder in a strangely supportive gesture, and then the three entered the darkness that was the Kennels.

They all felt it. The shift in atmosphere. Like a drop in pressure when weather was changing, Quick as a flip being switched, the air went from muggy and too humid to cold, arid and stale. Sherlock could feel the shifting of scales about him as he sat crouched, his knees tucked against his chest and his tail curling about him in the darkness. His collar choked him today more than usual, as he was tucked into the furthest corner of his cage.

Today was the day they would come for him.

He could taste it, even as he let out a soft rumble and joined in on the air of discontent. Adoption Day, when some would leave and never return, forced most often to hard labour or sex slaves depending on a stupid coloured tag worn about your neck. Disgusting really, though some truly didn't know how to only take what they could handle. Sherlock felt warm and clammy, mostly because they had forced him under the heating lamps until his skin had blistered and his throat had cried out for water. He leaned into the cool brick-work of the wall, trying to get his body temperature back to the normal below-freezing point. He panted slightly, the sound animal and ghostly in the dark. Others whimpered, half-drowned, and some shivered and tried to keep their fingers from turning blue thanks to ice baths.

One person that had tried to take Sherlock, had wanted him as a sexual partner. Only a night passed and the man was sent to the ER, suffering frostbite in places that no Human in the right mind could conceive of. For a moment he bared his teeth at the memory, fierce once more for a second before he remembered his weakened state. Then he slumped back into his chains, listening as he flicked his slightly pointed ears to the sound of The Gateway opening to let in the new wave of meaningless presences that would ogle him for an instant before seeing the Red on his Collar and drawing away.

Because Red meant he was dangerous.

Red meant he was deadly.

Red meant he could kill and he had.

And really, a rabid dog was just as lethal to the owner as it was to his enemies, and Sherlock didn't much like playing pet any ways.

He was ready to die.

Down the hall, footsteps trudged forward, entering the Hell that was his tiny, boxed-in world. The door shut audibly, as if announcing the strange quality of a place like a Kennel. Entering was easy enough, but once you laid eyes on the quality, the lives before you, it was much harder to leave...

John did not like it here.

That one thought was surprisingly elegant in his opinion, considering as soon as he stepped onto the cobblestone floor the acrid stench of hundreds of unwashed bodies confronted his nose. He nearly gagged, gritting his teeth as his eyes watered and he tried to blink past the automatic tears to see before him. It was a dark hallway, lined with cell bars that glinted silver in the low-hanging lights. The bulbs hummed a dull yellow, incandescent and glaring as they swung softly to the invisible breath of thousands of lives. The noise was deafening to him, and he squinted his eyes in pain as a mix of both Human and beast-like shrieks assaulted him from all angles. Mr. Lyle seemed to however only become aggravated with the tumult, grabbing a tazer off a hook by the door and waving it threateningly until the hands that reached for them desperately through the bars and clawed at the ground retreated, moans becoming snivelling whimpers that made John think of wounded babies left to starve in the woods. He felt his nostrils flare in tightly controlled rage as he realized for about the twelfth time since this whole thing began that he did not want a slave. He'd sooner risk getting torn open or shot at than risk sleeping next to one of these things, and yet couldn't bring himself to hate them enough that he could respond with glee as he watched Lyle unapologetically zap a White Collared Chinese Dragon that recoiled from his bars with a low wail. The man's voice remained measured and calm throughout it all as if he didn't even see the same scene before him, and to John's shock he saw the Lieutenant have the same carefully blank expression on her face. Mike was following suit too, albeit more nervously. His sweat stood out on the cleft of his brow, clear on his pinkened flesh.

Nerves.

John got the distinct feeling they could hear it, pounding away in their hearts as adrenaline. He couldn't make out much in terms of distinct shapes, but he could hear scales and skin shifting in the dark. Coiling, tightening for action. Predator's taking in prey that had somehow come out on top in the food chain. Enemies, expected to be treated as Masters.

"I'll give you essentially free reign on the place for two hours. Then other clients come."

Lyle shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets leisurely before handing Lieutenant Dodge the taze with an almost careless air.

"Feel free to get...acquainted with them or punish them if that's your thing. Just no permanent damage on the merchandise please. You can open any of the cages so long as you are armed except a Red Case and so long as you agree you won't sue if bodily harm comes to you."

He grinned at the last bit, eyes sharpening in a predatory way again. He reached out almost casually and stroked a White Collars' head, grabbing a lock of her soft ginger hair and bringing it to his lips in the mockery of a kiss before he laughed at her petrified growls and turned towards the exit. His last words rang in John's ears, echoing dreadfully down the halls in bell-like shivers.

"Have fun boys."

Then Mike and John found themselves the speculation of many glowing, slitted eyes gleaming brighter than the lamps themselves in the dark.

Sherlock could hear them as they slowly shifted about the many twisting halls and passageways, looking tentatively into the bars of the cells as if trying to find a treasure amongst stones. He could smell the nerves on them, tangy and sharp in his flared nostrils. As one blue-green eyes flicked open, he caught the mottled colour of Military garb on their leader, a woman with hard eyes. He watched her shadow unobtrusively, not moving from the shadow of his cage. He could almost be invisible, when he felt like it.

Mid thirties, seen battle by the scars on her arms and the very slightly widened gait of someone used to bracing themselves under the weight of weaponry. Has been in service perhaps six years now, partly due to an abusive cousin or close family friend and a desire to escape their presence. From the mud on her boots I'd probably say hard-working and likes to do hands-on jobs. Tough but fair, doesn't beat her Dragon excessively, but enough to keep him in line. Enjoys order, and thinks the blonde one will make a better soldier than the brunette.

The Dragon then closes his eyes again, bored with analyzing Humans and their idiosyncrasies. It is only when he hears the creak of the Gateway opening again that he bothers to look up, hearing the distinct rattle of chains and leads headed in his direction. It looked like they weren't going to bother to wait until the newcomers left.

It was time.

With sinuous grace Sherlock rose to his feet, his collar tinkling in the dark. It was just as the two burly Handlers, one with blonde hair and the other with dirty brown, that a pair of blue eyes caught his curiously as John rounded the corner upon hearing the sound of movement.

There truly were Dragons of all kinds in the Kennels. Lyle hadn't lied about that much, it was a virtual circus down in the halls of cages, all lined in rows. Crates and actual Cells, all glinting with eerie silver light as if glowing from within. He and Mike quickly realized that the two hours, though it had seemed excessive at the time was necessary to get a look at all of the creatures writhing and snarling in their pens. Mike decided to go about the job numerically, starting with the first cage and working his way down, but John soon found himself just wandering amongst the cages. He peered into the darkness at the strange and mysterious animals before him. There were woman-shapes and man-shapes, most of the Dragons half-formed so they could fit in their containments. Yet there was also reptilian swishes of tails, the twitching of claws, and eyes that went from slitted to round with the absorption of light. He stopped in front of one cage, looking up at a quivering English Dragon with silver-grey eyes and short blonde hair. She bared her teeth at him in hatred, but she cowered when he reached out one hand as if to touch one partly-scaled hand. They non-Human parts of her skin glittered Cherry red. She was a Yellow Card.

John dropped his hand soothingly and moved away at her silent rebuttal.

Another was a White Card, but John crouched in front of his cage curiously anyway. A Chinese from the look of the Dark hair and the fact that he bore no wings but webbed hands as he looked at John with suspicion and fear. His scales were a jade green, and had delicate whorl-like patters that crawled up his cheeks and lined his eyes with silver. His irises were a beautiful, sinking gold. However John could see the delicateness in them and moved away from him too, unable and unwilling to bring something so fragile into a War-Zone.

On and on it went, and more and more John soon found that he couldn't feel a connection with any of the Dragons he'd seen. But maybe that was because he was trying to find some semblance of connection with Monsters. Really, how did anyone do this? He was torn between wishing he could report the horrible qualities of the Kennels to someone and wanting to just run and never turn back. He knows somewhere deep inside that he would make a very bad Master, because he knows the feeling of being helpless. And whenever he looked into their eyes, that's all he could see.

Helpless.

Broken.

Subdued.

Mike eventually picked one out. A Yellow Card English. However from what John saw of her as Mike coaxed her out of her Kennel, she acted more like a White Card. Her name was Meriath, but his friend as he stroked her long red-brown hair seemed to have already given her a nickname.

Molly.

"Too soft for battle."

Lieutenant Dodge commented sharply, but she didn't offer further argument as she grabbed the creature's chain and hauled her towards the front, threatening any disobedience with the idea of a taze. John didn't think the timid beast would even consider it anyway, the pitiful burbling noises she made as she was all but dragged away to be Chipped and Registered were panicked and small. He's also not sure if Dodge is actually referring to the Dragon or to Mike, because his friend had a soft look in his eyes that showed he picked Molly out of pity, and probably nothing more.

John is just about to think that he may have to come for a second visit, or close his eyes and choose at random. That is until he heard the soft chinking of the Gateway being opened and two men entering the room silhouetted in light. His eyes having become used to the darkness by this point, John squinted and used his hand to shield his vision as he saw the twin navy uniforms of Handlers. They each carried a lead, and on their belts were whips and tazers for good measure. Though they don't seem to be particularly pleasant gentlemen, they do tip their hats to the Lieutenant before completely ignoring John and Mike. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed a distinct shift in all of the Dragon's mannerisms. Loud noises became cut into silence, slitted eyes widened to take in any small movement of the men as forked and non-forked tongues alike licked upper lips in nervous anticipation. Several of the creatures dove immediately for whatever small shelter they could find in their cages, some of them using their own wings as a sort of shield from whatever pain they expected to come. The two Handlers ignored most of them, and their gait spoke of having a purpose as they unerringly went towards the back of the Kennel, where most of the more dangerous Dragons abode. Neither John nor Mike had dared step foot across the line of Red tape, both of them silently agreeing that they would not find what they were looking for there.

However curiosity however morbid eats away at John as he found himself creeping slowly forward, a certain amount of wonder from the latent dregs of childhood wanting to see something as powerful and dangerous as the legends supplied. He noticed immediately that the Cages here were different than the others. For one, they were bolted to the wall, and were bigger. For another, there were heavy-duty locks as well as chains almost as thick as his arms winding around every available surface it seemed. John as he silently followed the two men could barely see into some of the cages, catching only glittering eyes in unnatural colours and the low rumbling snarl of Monsters barely contained. He could feel their gazes upon him in the prickling of the back of his neck, and John found his heart began to beat a little faster in response, and his mouth became dry. He got the distinct impression he now knew how a bird felt under the eyes of a hungry cat. It didn't matter if these creatures were Collared and Caged, he could feel the danger coursing through his veins. It gave him an odd thrill that he couldn't quite name and staunchly refused to acknowledge, but it also made his legs wobbly and soon the two Handlers noticed his quiet stalking.

Instead of sending him away like he expected them to, they both smirked as if they saw something in his face that they recognized. The blonde man pulled out a heavy key as he knelt in front of a heavily padded lock at the last cage to the right, and his light voice spoke out into the darkness conversationally.

"Looks like you've got an audience to your Death March mate."

It took John a second to realize the man was speaking to the Dragon inside the cage. Though whatever was in there made no noise, John could see into one of the spaces between the bars of the Cell. He caught a flash of a dark blue tail twitching, quickly shifting from muted grey to deepest black until it hid itself back into shadow.

A Northern one then.

The young man thought, and tilted his head to the side as if to get a better look. Northern Dragons were a bit of a novelty. They tended to be very powerful creatures, strong and good for battle, but because of the fact that they had to maintain a certain body temperature at all times they weren't often taken in. Coupled with the fact that their scales could shift colours to blend into a variety of different environments, they were also exceedingly difficult to keep track of or to catch. John caught a glimpse of a trademark pale blue eye as the creature blinked once. But it must have closed its eyes again the next second, as there was only shadow once more.

"Death March?"

John asked, licking his lips in confusion as the Handler set about unhooking the long chain that tied the entrance to the Cell closed. He wore heavy-duty protection underneath his uniform, long sleeves and leather gloves to prevent getting frostbite just in case they hadn't heated the Monster enough. His voice was a lazy drawl, but his words were sharp as he tugged the Cage open. From inside there was a hiss, and cold steam circled around John's ankles. Like fog from dry ice.

"Old smoky here's considered too dangerous to Adopt, has had a few Masters and all sent him back. He's no good to anyone just taking up space."

From inside the cage, John hears a low rumbling snarl. He swallows reflexively, taking a step back. If they were actually going to bring the Dragon out, then he should probably stay out of their way. Yet his feet held him planted in place, not allowing him movement as the sound of chains clicking onto a Collar and tugging filled his ears. In response there was a terrible, animalistic snarling, the kind that made the hair on the back of John's arms and neck stand on end. It echoed down the hall, alerting Mike and Dodge to what was going on. The lieutenant scowled, coming forward and making as if to grab John's arm, except the blonde man stayed firmly still. His eyes didn't move from the entrance of the Cage as slowly, bit by bit, the two men heaved and pulled. One of the men cussed loudly as whatever was inside pulled back, but they held their ground and kept tugging.

"Back up boy!"

The woman snarled in John's ear, but he couldn't move.

Couldn't blink.

Couldn't breathe as they slowly brought the form of the Dragon out from his Cage.

Because of all of the roaring, all of the smoke and all of the terrible beating of wings, John expected a hulking Monster.

Instead, he found himself face to face with something that was indeed terrifying, indeed deadly...

But also unmistakably, oddly, beautiful.

And Sherlock, turning to snarl at the little whelp that had decided to watch his murder, found a pair of dark blue eyes looking at him not with hatred, not with ownership, but with unmasked and open awe.


	3. Adoption

**Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! :3 If you want to read ahead, I have an account on AO3 that's been updated further. However I will be posting a new chapter almost everyday until I'm caught up with my other account, so you won't have to wait long. :3 **

**Enjoy! **

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**Exerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Dragon-Tongue(language): **__The language of Dragons is a complicated and intricate tongue, difficult to learn because ituses many sounds that a Human mouth can struggle to imitate. Because of this, many people do not understand the mannerisms of Dragons as they interact with one another. Dragons are extremely courteous and honour-bound creatures. It is often considered offensive if a Dragon does not refer to another Dragon as 'Milord' or 'My Lady'. In fact, Humans must be extremely careful when imitating the Dragon-Tongue, for without manners a Dragon could take offense. The best thing to do when learning a new language is to consult a proffessional, and to always admit when you do not understand a turn of phrase or a custom. (See Section C page 442 for more details on "Dragon Customs")_

When John had been very, very small his Mother had once bundled he and Harry into the best (and only) Winter clothes they'd owned, sneaking them past their Father as he snored drunkenly on the sofa and outside into the hushed night of Christmas Eve. He could remember how she tugged them along lightly, the smell of cinnamon cider still on her breath and a smile on her tired face that he didn't get to see very much in those days warming her eyes to a light blue.

He had always been told he had her eyes, even after she passed away. John however never thought his eyes could change from such a dark shade to something so light in an instant. To him it seemed like a Magic trick, before he had learned that Magic was bad and evil because only Dragons could use it.

Though it might have been because he was still sleepy and confused as to where his Mother was taking them that it had seemed like such a dramatic change at the time. Like a dark ocean turning into the palest light of dawn.

His steps had been heavy with sleep as he stomped his feet into his boots, trying to tie the laces by himself (because Dad said men knew how to take care of themselves) and Harry yawning by his ear as she pulled on her woollen mittens. Bright red, John had remembered, just like the colour of a fire-truck. She had gotten them just for that reason, so she wouldn't lose them.

Back then both of them had gotten to see a lot of fire-trucks, mostly on the telly. They put out the fires that burned the cities and saved people, so John supposed they were important. At least important enough to go careening through traffic like they did, heedless of rules or regulations. He'd once seen one in real life, and it had actually caused an accident because someone hadn't gotten their car out of the way fast enough. It had been a scary, shrieking thing that seemed too big and too bright all at once. At the time he had cowered behind his Mother's leg.

Still...

He kind of liked the idea of being a fire-fighter, except for the fact that if he was one then he wouldn't get to learn how to use a gun. The thought made him frown unhappily. As a five year old boy, he thought it very important that he learn how to fire a gun. After all, who would protect big sis or Mum if he didn't learn how to?

Da sometimes did, but sometimes he hurt them. The thought had made his hands clench tightly, his nails digging crescent moons into his palms. His Mother had noticed where he was glaring as she knelt in front of him and pulled his mitts carefully over his fingers. Her voice had been low in his ear, and it had sparkled to him more than the shabby Christmas tree in the corner of their living room, looking like the Charlie brown tree because it was overburdened with rows of tinsel and popcorn rows. Warning him to be careful of his emotions even while not precisely chastising him. She had been good at that.

Skilled at keeping a level, teaching hand without being mean.

"Shh. This is for your eyes only dear. Don't let him spoil things for you."

Slowly, she had rubbed methodical circles over his knuckles until he had been forced to relax his steel grip on nothing but the air.

Then she had taken his hand gently, reaching for Harry's fingers with her other one, and she had taken them outside to see the sunrise. At the time, her proud look on him had made it worth not striking out at their Father. The little boy would have run forever just to catch a glimpse of that smile.

John could still sometimes recall the crunch of crisp snow under his boots, and the way his breath had appeared before his fascinated eyes like the clouds in the sky before fading off into the distance. So early in the morning, hardly anyone was out and about. It had been strange, seeing his slum of a district utterly still and peaceful. Like the entire world was holding their breath, creating one Christmas Miracle in the form of a moment of deafening silence. Their footsteps had sound so loud, and they pressed into the fresh white flakes under them and painted them with their passing. His Mother had taken them to the ladder on the side of the one grocery store, called Sarnie's. Her hands had gripped the rusted rungs and her knuckles had turned white as she hoisted herself up, turning to give Harry a hand up to the bottom rung, who in turn held out a hand for John. Climbing had been fairly easy, but John wasn't used to heights. His Mother had whispered to them not to look down, and the curious little boy had made the mistake of ignoring her and looking directly below. Beneath him the ground seemed to stretch impossibly far below, and John's stomach had dropped out from under him in horror as he realized distantly that if he fell he'd crack his head out onto the pavement. His entire body stilled with frozen terror, his hands gripping the rungs so tightly that the blood had drained from his knuckles, and his knees buckled and threatened to give way. His heart pounding in his ears, he stood stuck. Unable to move forward, yet unable to go back.

That moment of blind terror would live with him forever.

The sensation of not quite falling and not quite standing on land.

Even though Harry had eventually pulled him the rest of the way up with a mocking giggle, John maintained a fear of heights to this day.

Though the memory hadn't been all bad.

Because once he had been hoisted onto the flat roof of the building, his Mother had lead him to the very centre of it, where if John squinted he could see District One, shining in all of its splendour off into the distance. The little boy had gripped the edge of her coat and gaped, because before his eyes the city turned from dull grey to brilliant silver, shining as the sky lightened to a pale and watery yellow to shining gold and deepest scarlet and pink. It was like watching a small film, as his round eyes took in the bright orange disk that rose to silhouette the city in the distance in colours so bright it hurt his eyes, and yet John couldn't bear to look away. His eyes had narrowed but he had stared on determinedly, refusing to give in even though his eyes stung and watered. He didn't even dare to blink until the pinks and golds faded into the beautiful pale blue of dawn cresting the horizon, and he heard the first early risers of his District below wake from their beds and rise.

It had been his Mother's last Christmas present to him before she passed on.

In the two years to follow she'd be too sick to pay for presents, much less climb roofs.

John was reminded of that sky now as he stared at the beast before him and his legs trembled in fear and awe, lips parted in shock as for a moment the Dragon regarded him speculatively, snarls dying slowly in its throat as it stared at him with narrowed eyes. In return, the young man stared back at something that was not quite man and not quite beast, unsure of what exactly he was seeing.

It was a curious thing, because in its nudity, he saw that it was much more Human than he first had suspected. It almost made him embarrassed to look, except for the fact that he had no choice as he was half afraid it would lunge at him if he turned away.

It stood before him half-crouched, but looked like it was more because of it being used to cramped quarters as opposed to an inability to rise fully. The shape of it overall was a man, and yet not quite. Like a puzzle somehow having certain pieces from another box connected to it. Milky-pale skin clung over protruding ribs and bones, being broken here and there by patches of layered, diamond-shaped scales jutting out almost defensively. Their colours were shifting and strange, from that Sky-blue that made John remember his childhood to deepest purple, its confusion evident in the rapid succession of its shifting. When the creature breathed, smoke came out of its Human mouth, but it was cool as the clouds of fog John had seen on Christmas morning wandering about before dawn. It had darkly curled, greasy black hair, but the young man suspected with a good scrubbing it would shine like newly polished leather boots in the sun. The creature was littered in scars and scrapes and abrasions like War-paint , and it was plain to see it fought its bonds regularly as thin red lines circled its wrists and neck where the Collar sat. Though its eyes were ringed with dark circles, their irises glowed an unearthly and rather haunted blue as they looked down at him, for the creature was tall as it was thin. John got the unnerving impression staring into those eyes that his very skin was being stripped away from him. That every secret thought, every sentient idea he had ever had was being laid bare before this recalcitrant being.

Sherlock in turn, did the same.

Observe.

Although he did it much more thoroughly.

What he saw confused him.

Blonde hair, the colour of sunlight on a Summer's day. I don't know what that actually looks like, but that's what I think it should look like. Eyes like sky. I saw the sky once, I think. When I was being transported from another Kennel. Except these are lighter somehow, and there's no stars in them. Though there is shine. Possibly from the refraction of light in angles as it bounces off his retina. Already has a Military bearing, perhaps because his Father was ex-Army. Abusive home, can tell because of obvious reluctance of being here where there is suffering and yet he's going through with it. Speaks of a desire to leave home as well as a distaste for blood. Though his leaving is not for financial reasons it's part of it. Methodical person, plain and simple. Expressive face, given that he hasn't stopped gaping like a hungry Hatchling since he's seen me.

Has a small but deceptively muscular build, but **why **does he look at me that way?

Illogical. He is just afraid.

A predator staring at prey, nothing more...

What does he **see?**

And the Dragon didn't know and couldn't read it from the man, but it scared him and compelled him at the same time.

John thought he heard a voice in his head, rumbling and deep like the softest echo of a thunderstorm. The barest brush of a breath within his mind. It could almost be mistaken for his own voice inside of his thoughts. His eyes widened.

**Why...?**

Then one of the Handlers seemed to find his tazer, hand coming up in a cutting arc to plunge the electrical device straight into the beasts' arm. Time restarted with a jolt and John was left wondering if he had imagined the voice as the beast reared viciously.

A pealing sound of agony tore from its lips that made the young man's ears ring and almost drove him to his knees. Confused blue turned into pained and furious red, and with a mighty shriek of agony the beast turned and transformed, becoming a fully-sized Dragon for just an instant and almost closing its teeth around the Handlers' head before a second taze from the Lieutenant brought him down.

A giant shadowy blur that John flinched away from instinctively.

With a tremor that shook the very walls of the Cages themselves the beast stumbled and fell onto the ground, long tail nearly impaling John as it lashed one last furious time before going limp and still with unconsciousness. He and Mike stumbled away and then forward, trying to regain their footing even as the dust settled, and the shrieks and jeers of other Dragons filled the air with noises of distress that became deafeningly loud and swelled to echo in the Kennels.

Then there is silence.

Silence so profound that all Humans just stare at the felled creature before them in shock, unable to move and yet unable to quite look away at something so powerfully vicious.

John barely notices when he says it, but he cannot be oblivious to the incredulous look his friend gives him when he mutters

"That one. I'll take the Northern."

If only because if he was going to be eaten by something with eighteen inch fangs because of his obvious ineptitude at training animals, he wanted to die seeing the colour of that sunrise one last time as his final breath.

Sherlock slept in a sea of darkness.

Clouded.

Painful.

Frightening.

He dreamt that he was swimming in black water that clung to skin sluggishly like tar and painted his precious scales black and grimy. It stung like acid when he tried to lick it off of him, blistering his tongue. It also tasted foul and poisonous. He couldn't stop swimming for too long though, because as soon as he stopped he began to sink. In his True form, he lashed and writhed, terrified when this would happen. It was too hot, everything was too hot.

It hurt, and he whimpered in distress and suffering.

When he complained, there was a cool touch on his brow. Stroking, petting. Sherlock wanted to recoil from it, but it felt too good. His body leaned against it against his will, searching for the source of the cool touch but unable to see it. A voice he didn't recognize murmured in his ear.

"Shh. It's all right. You'll be fine. It's all fine."

It was a Human, but it didn't sound Human.

Humans growled and spat and shouted.

Humans beat and twisted his bones and broke his skin with their whips and tazers.

This voice was far too gentle to be of the same breed as the men who had tormented him for as long as he'd known.

The voice fades after a while, but the cooling touch stays. It is the only thing that keeps Sherlock sane, the feverish black liquid drowning him, pulling him under. He wants to fight, but he is becoming weaker. He can't keep attacking it.

Can't even try.

He is useless, his body betraying him finally to the dregs of stress and panic.

His limbs go slack, and he is submerged. It burns him, hurts him. Maims him.

He only experiences it for a second before blissful unconsciousness fills him and takes him away on a boat of dreams.

"You can't be serious. A rookie like you take care of a Red Card? No. I'm not going to allow this." Dodge said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest even as she watched the Handlers get out two large metal Crates, locking a conscious and whimpering Molly and an unconscious Sherlock inside them with skilled and professional clangs.

John to his credit stubbornly ignored the woman, filling out the Adoption papers with a red-ink pen on the desk as Mr. Lyle grinned like it was Christmas morning and he had just been exceptionally good all year. Again his oily voice complimented John's choice, not that it had really been much of a decision at all. John was surprised the price wasn't higher for the Northern he's just selected, but he supposed the beast had almost been put down in his presence. A mere one hundred pounds, dirt cheap for a dragon and the Military would reimburse him.

"A challenge is always good for a young man! Imagine the gratitude that comes from hard-work paid off when his Dragon rides with him into battle, I daresay I told you that this one had a liking for danger!"

He clapped John on the shoulder warmly, and the young man scowled and moved out of his tight grip. Looking down at the contract before him, he noticed a line of fine print and frowned.

"What does it mean by 'no refunds'?"

Lyle grinned wider, eyes glittering in the cool light as he put on an expression of totally unbelievable innocence.

"Means if you can't train it or break it, don't bother sendin' him back my dear sir. Have it executed on the grounds, drown it for all I care. That Northern's been a right pain since he was a Hatchling."

Dodge looked at John, who had gone rather sickly pale at not only the idea of the permanence of this, but also with the idea of drowning. He swallowed thickly, and her low voice was rough and amused despite her anger with him.

"Having second thoughts already soldier?"

John hesitated then, just for a moment. His pen hovered in the air, just about where he was about to cross the t to his last name. He could stop this. He could go back and pick out a Yellow Card, one that was docile and even-tempered and servile by nature. He didn't owe this animal anything, and there was no guarantee that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't find him a cold and lifeless corpse the next morning if he signed the paper. His hand trembled for just a moment in indecision, his teeth coming to clamp down on his lip as he stared at his name.

This.

This was Binding.

If he signed, that meant that any of his failure would be brought down on his own head.

The Dragon's blood would now be on his hands, should it attack someone.

Should it prove to be too feral to tame.

He already suspected it was half "savage", and the scars littering its hide that he had seen as he Handlers had hauled the serpentine body into its Crate spoke of a fighter. A spirit that would not bend or break with ease. He could just go home, take his docile servant, and shag a nice girl and have as easy a life as he could while being part of the Queen's Army.

In the end, it's the thing's low cries of fear that cause his pen to move. Cause his eyes to look over at the two beasts being loaded onto the trolley.

From inside the Crate, the Dragon moaned softly with the sound of a baby crying, shivering and sweating with eyes wild and disoriented. It broke something in John, the idea of such a proud and lovely creature sentenced to death like nothing more than a rabid dog.

He was a doctor, or at least he was training to be. It was not in his nature to ignore the cries of the ill, even if the ill happened to be a three hundred pound Dragon with claws that could turn him into sashimi if they felt so inclined.

He couldn't help it.

In a way, he was reminded of his older sister Harry. The creature made a bluster of being strong and fierce, but those blue-green eyes at the moment now were only filled with fear and primal suffering.

In the end he signed, and he saw Dodge draw a long and annoyed, but resigned sigh.

She hadn't thought he'd back out in the end either. Sometimes, there was no choosing a Dragon. Sometimes the Dragon chose you. As acerbic and vicious as the best was, she didn't dare question that kind of selection.

Her final words to him as the Handlers' get the trolleys to lift the Crates to the car were laced with a sort of sardonic amusement.

"Whatever. You want to make your own bed. You get to sleep in it."

Then she let John click his heels and salute to her before she called him a "git" and gestured for them with an air of resignation to move on out.

They rode in silence, the two Crates just small enough to fit in the large boot of the car and allowing the people who sat in the back seat access to the two Caged and quite frankly, irritable dragons. Mike whispered soothing words to his obviously stressed Dragon occasionally, her mouth spitting a blackish sort of smoke as she slowly tried to re-light the flame in her gut after being drowned at the Kennels. It would be a few hours still though before she would succeed.

Though John's Dragon was still mostly out of it, he responded to Molly's tiny whimpers with snarling and snapping, seeming to be too dazed to realize that his protests were useless given the fact that he was in a metal box with air holes drilled in it. The noises he made were horrific, and even Cerioth looked vaguely tetchy and nervous as they grew in volume, the Dragon's hands tightening minutely about the wheel. It was interesting, to see even other Dragon's flinch away from a Red Card. The Northern didn't seem to notice. Its Crate rocked savagely as the beast threw itself against the metal confinements again and again, and John worried to himself that he'd have to deal with bruising along its shoulders and neck when he got him.

As they came to the main road Dodge's Dragon cautiously cleared his throat, and his low voice hesitantly spoke to his Mistress just loud enough that she'd hear even with her hands covering her ears against the din of roars.

"Permission to speak, Mistress?"

His tone was polite, but it held a tinge of fear in it that John wasn't sure was entirely from his Dragon's influence.

"What is it?" The woman snapped, obviously annoyed and now second-guessing her decision of letting John take the Northern Dragon with him. Her Dragon didn't react to the sharp tone, but he flinched physically as the creature in the back snarled something acerbic and in distinct Dragon-Tongue in his direction. The servant addressed the wild Dragon in the back with elegant courtesy and a surprising amount of respect, given the fact that John was fairly certain the beast was foaming at the mouth it was so infuriated. In fact it was so respectful that he wondered if perhaps Cerioth wasn't being just a bit mocking in his tone. Though if he was it was well disguised.

"It occurs to me that M'lord in the back is suffering from fever...Which no doubt is causing him no small amount of discomfort. There is a cooler underneath your seat with some wet wipes in them. It's not much, and he might consider it disrespectful...but..."

Another snarl rang out, this one leaving John's ears ringing in bell-like aftershocks. Cerioth again winced, and this time he muttered something unintelligible in his own Tongue as he shifted gears to merge lanes, the car beeping softly with the turn.

John didn't have to think twice, knowing that no one else would volunteer to do it. He was desperate at this point to make the horrible noises stop.

"Mike, pass them to me."

His friend peeled his hands away from his ears and looked like he could almost weep with relief. He leant forward and dug under the seats until he found the wet wipes and held them up to John like a trophy of reverent value. John took them into his hands, carefully peeling apart the wet pieces of fabric and releasing a slightly chemical smell in the air. Dodge turned to look at him, eyes glittering with seriousness.

"Be careful. He's a Northern, and their jaw strength is strong enough to break a grown man's femur. Your arm won't make it if he decides to attack."

Her words sent a chill through John's spine, and he swallowed nervously and nodded in affirmation. The air holes were just large enough that John could fit his hand and the lower part of his arm into it, but he hesitated for a moment before doing so. Inside the Crate, the Dragon was obviously disoriented, also fairly angry. Normally he wouldn't think of doing anything that could provoke it further.

However he needed to stop the horrible shrieking noises that it was making, or he was sure he wouldn't be able to get them to stop at home and he was tired enough that he didn't need another day of sleep deprivation. Holding his breath and his heart pounding like a jack-hammer inside of his chest, John closed his eyes tightly and reached inside the Crate.

Then, he placed a wet wipe covered hand ever so gently against the creature's heaving hide.

At first, he could feel the muscles in the beast coil under his hand, and the young man cringed and waited for the inevitable snarling and snapping of teeth where he could say goodbye to his hand. However in the next instant, something happened that made John for just a moment freeze, his mouth falling open in surprise as he had to blink to make sure what he was feeling was actually real. The Dragon, after pulling away from him and the coolness of the cloth, leaned into the touch like a babe seeking its Mother.

That was when John knew for a fact that not only had they overheated the Monster, but they had probably fried some of his brain cells as well. Still he opened his eyes and relaxed infinitesimally, unable to quite grasp what he was seeing before him.

Its eyes didn't focus on him, they were too glazed and dizzy for that, but they were open and wide and held in them a hazy intelligence. John could feel underneath the fabric that the Dragon's skin was almost as warm as his, something that was most definitely wrong for a Northern species and indicating illness most of the time. He frowned, unable to keep the scowl completely off of his face at the thought.

Secondly, John noticed that the Dragon had shrunken from its full form instinctively, and he caught a wisp of dark hair and pale skin laced with scars before a shifting blue-red wing hid the Monster's face from view. Subconsciously, John had been aware that he had picked a male, but it came to light more clearly by the strong outline of a muscular shoulder, leaning into his exposed hand so that John was inches away from touching where sinewy flesh met hard and unyielding scale. To feel the Dragon Shift was odd under his hands, because he could feel the bones under flesh shrinking and clicking into new order, not unlike a Rubik's cube being turned so that new sides were new colours. He marvelled silently at it, wondering to himself if he'd ever get to feel something like it ever again. The large, bat-like wings that his hand was inches away from quivered silently with the change.

It was such a smooth, gradual transition that it was impossible to entirely tell where man ended and beast began. Scale turned into flesh, and flesh turned into scale.

Except John thought he saw something black and festering on the other wing, marring the transition and making a jagged cut along the creature's spine. He frowned, recognizing signs of infection but not daring to touch the sluggishly bleeding wound lest it hurt and the Dragon attack him. Like black tar dripping down the beast's shoulders, it was an ugly, festering thing. His Doctor's instincts couldn't help it. He wanted a better look at it, but he forced himself to hold still for the sake of the safety of his limbs.

Have to check that later.

Even though he knew nothing of Dragon anatomy. Or what in the hell kind of infection that was, if that's what it was at all. For all he knew it could be completely normal, although he doubted it, since the other wing was reasonably unmarred. Just a little filthy. That was another thing. The stench coming off both of the Dragons made his nose wrinkle and nausea threaten to creep into his mouth. Sour.

Like piss and rot.

And a bath. Though I don't know if I can put him in a regular one. The heat might be a problem.

He stayed like that for the remainder of the car ride, too afraid to pull away less the creature snap at him, unable to tear his gaze from the spot just between the creature's scapulae.

And very quietly, the Monster growled a low rumbling noise that vibrated up the young man's arm and seem to shake him down to his very inner heart.

Whether it was a noise of contentment or a warning, John didn't think he'd ever know. However the Dragon never lashed out at him, and he thought to himself that perhaps he just maybe had a chance after all.

Sherlock dreamed of cool fingers wiping away the blackness, and very quietly murmured something in Dragon-Tongue in his sleep that made Cerioth's bright eyes stare with a silent kind of longing at the impossible expanse of open field stretching to their left towards The Wilds beyond. It was only for an instant, but the servant felt a pair of dark blue eyes on him and knew that the young man in the back seat was possibly far more observant than even he himself knew.

What Mrs. Hudson had apparently not told John when he had moved into **221 B, **was that part of the reason she had been so warm and overjoyed at his acceptance of the flat was because the flat below **221 C, **was never stayed in for more than just a few months at a time. Perhaps it was the damp, percolating through the very walls with it being a basement flat and all, or perhaps it was the fact that there was a generally eerie feeling lurking in its' depths. It was as if something had lingered in there, long ago, and the shadow of it still hadn't completely gone away. Like it was smudged into the very concrete of the floor itself, a charcoal rubbing.

John had found himself shivering at the entrance to it, torn in his mind between just lugging the impossibly heavy Crate upstairs and pissing the beast inside off further and going for his original plan.

After all, he wasn't about to just let a Red Card Dragon have free reign of his flat. At least not tonight. The pamphlet titled How To Train Your Dragon had three sections, a page for each level of aggression and the Red Card side had instructed him to leave the best in its Crate for the first week to allow it time to calm down. However the fact was that John was afraid if he did so it would only make it angrier. Since Dodge had dropped him off at his flat, the young man had been forced to use up all of the wet wipes and them slowly remove his hand, and the beast had gone from a fairly compliant if not pitiful creature to the snarling terror that John had caught of glimpse of back in the Kennels. The Dragon had made such a fuss, kicking the insides of his Crate so that the BANG had startled poor Mrs. Hudson as they stepped inside the complex.

The blonde youth wondered to himself if it wasn't too late to go back, flushing in embarrassed apology.

As he had lifted it, he could feel the Dragon's muscles clamping down, trying to make itself heavier so that even John's newly trained Army muscles struggled to lift the half-Human form inside. All the while the animal had kept up a steady stream of Dragon-Tongue based profanities and snarls, ones that even John could understand in their implications at least by the acerbic way they were spat at him. Other occupants had peeked out their front doors curiously at the noise, the flats mostly occupied by Military personnel so they often had a few Dragons peeking out as well. One snickered quietly at something the Dragon hissed at John, and was rewarded by a sharp cuff to his ear by his Master and a sharp order to 'apologize'. John flushed and murmured that punishment wasn't necessary for the giggle, partly because he supposed he did look pretty funny and partly because the Dragon's Human form made it clear that the animal was barely out of its Hatchling years. He tried to ignore the mocking snort that briefly came from inside the Crate at his stumbling words before the high-pitched shriek continued full-force.

In the end, he had asked to use **221 C **because despite the damp, the walls were sturdy concrete. Being a basement, it had no windows or easily breakable parts to it, and was only one floor. Though John didn't like the fact that it seemed to scream prison instead of room, he thought that anything had to be better than the small steel box that the creature was currently residing in. At least if he could somehow convince the Dragon to relax in here, the likelihood of broken furniture (or bones) lessened somewhat than in his flat upstairs.

Then there was the issue of The Chip.

John huffed as he dragged the box down the final flight of steps and braced his elbows against the box, ignoring the Dragon's protests as he stopped to catch his breath and mutter a good-natured curse towards the great scaly beast underneath him. Yes, he would have to get his reservations about that over with before he was sent to the Training Base in eight weeks. The Chips were something that had been invented about three years ago, an interesting piece of technology that had originally been used to keep track of cats and dogs in case they go missing so one could track them via GPS or the Humane Society could find the animal's address if they found them. With the introduction of Prisoners Of War and Dragon Servitude, The Chip had been modified so that it reacted with a signal sewn into the Dragon's Collar. Using a Clicker of sorts hat John had been given as part of his package at the Kennels, a 'Master' could discipline their animal by the press of a button. Dragons were extremely sensitive to electrical pulses, as it turned out upon experimentation. John had never seen what it looked like for a servant to be 'Disciplined', but he had seen his sister once stick a set of keys into a light socket. He shuddered to think of anyone willingly shocking something into submission. It went against the very nature of his core, The Healer shuddering away from inducing harm on anything unless absolutely necessary.

However the Military required it, as using more humane methods of Training didn't often work on Dragons and was costly by nature. So John palmed the small metal remote in his pocket even as he listened to the deafening silence around him as the Dragon seemed to realize they had reached their destination. John locked the door to **221 C **behind them, wanting to make sure just in case that if anything happened to him, the Monster couldn't get out and do anyone harm. Then he swiped his thumb against the inside of his wrist, noticing blankly his racing pulse and the way his blood was singing in his veins. He was sure the beast could probably hear it, and probably smell his fear.

Probably a bit not good, but you've walked into this willingly, Watson. Time to sleep in the bed you made, just like Dodge told you that you must.

From inside the Crate, Sherlock heard rather than saw the straightening of the young man's shoulders, his arms moving away from the top of the Crate and coming to rest in fists at his side. Through the air-holes, the Dragon saw the silver metal rectangle of the Clicker shimmering. His irises narrowed to hateful slits. Yet he also noticed that the hand that held it trembled slightly. It was true that he could hear the heartbeat of the man, pounding wetly and racing in the silence of the room. Though he wasn't feeling well and he couldn't quite see past the pulsing haze of red that kept crawling over his vision, Sherlock bared his teeth in preparation.

Whatever would come would come then.

Both of them felt the shift in their thoughts as they both realized the same conclusion at the same time.

One could only stay frozen for so long, pretending time didn't exist. Locked in a stalemate that had no foreseeable end.

Still, it was nearly midnight before John's hand, fingers trembling something terrible, slid towards the heavy latch sealing the Crate and its contents inside.

So much for a good night's sleep.

He thought frustratedly to himself.

And he nearly jumped out of his skin as inside his mind a familiar echoing voice growled in response.

_**Sleeping is boring.**_


	4. An Interested Party

**Thank you so much to everyone for the lovely reviews! :3 Enjoy the read! **

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**Exerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Thralls (Noun): **__Contrary to urban myth, a "Thrall" is not a Human that has been "brainwashed" by a Dragon into servitude. Although such spells do exist (See page 332 for more information) being a "Thrall" is a biological trait that appears in certain Humans, and is a genetic condition that manifests in early childhood. Just about thirteen percent of all Humans across the Earth have thought to have the condition, though it is uncertain at how accurate this percentage is as the government tends to be fairly secretive about the status of their citizens on this matter. It is tested for in many countries including most of Europe at birth, and is then documented on the person's file. Being a "Thrall" means that the Human in question is more sensitive to the telepathic waves Dragons naturally produce in order to aid in their communication with one another. As a result, said Human will possess the ability to communicate non-verbally with any of the Dragon species, however only if the Dragon allows them access into their minds. The condition varies in strength depending on the person, and much like interacting with a person in the real world, many "Thralls" find with practice they can choose to ignore a Dragon's particular wavelength. Similarly Dragons can adjust their own thoughts to either have the Thrall hear them more clearly, or muffle them to prevent them from listening in on their thoughts. All Dragons have the ability to read people's thoughts to a certain extent, but with "Thralls" it is substantially easier for them to lock down on their specific wavelength. Though no one is entirely certain how this ability comes to be or how it works, scientist theorize that it has something to do with certain Human's wilfulness or their ability to 'adapt' their emotions to the people around them, or to certain situations. It is noted that a high number of "Thralls" are also victims of child abuse. There is some theory in that with the sensitivity to emotions one must learn to possess in such households, that these children learn to become sensitive to minute changes in the energy of people. (see page 453 Section A for more information on "telepathy in Dragons")_

John almost expected it.

After all, he probably would have done the same thing if their roles had been reversed. It made sense, to take advantage of any opening you could.

He still could not prepare himself in time before he was thrown across the room at like he was nothing more than a marionette with cut strings. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of him as his back hit the wall of the flat and his head cracked against the concrete, the velocity of the impact sparking fireworks behind his eyes.

Body slack, he felt himself slide down the flat expanse of the wall as he gasped. He didn't get very far, barely brushing the ground before a clawed hand wrapped itself around his throat pressing him against the wall so that his feet dangled in the air and kicked against nothing. Like a child being held up by his parent's arms, he swung for a moment in mid-air. Except parents did not normally hold children by their throats.

John gagged, vision going red as all of his air supply was cut off in a flash.

He found himself staring into the cold eyes of a Demon.

Sherlock had used what little strength he had left to lunge out of the Crate, using the element of surprise to launch himself like a serpentine torpedo at the blonde-haired man before he could react. The result was a satisfying SMACK of flesh against unyielding concrete as they both found themselves pressed against the wall, the Dragon transformed into his snarling true form and towering like a shadow over the Human. Distantly, Sherlock noted how small he was when he was in his full size, and how easily he could break him into pieces if he so chose. The feeling sent a primal wave of power washing through him. The territorial desire to be the strongest and fastest was something all animals revelled in.

John cowered, suddenly faced with a scaly muzzle armed with rows of pointed teeth, breathing ice against his face in harsh snorts that sounded almost as terrifying as the low growling coming from its parted lips. Plum-coloured gums were visible as the creature bared its teeth at him, slitted eyes a blazing light blue. Twin cold fires that burned with fever, boring unblinkingly into his mind. John could feel the visceral strength in the claws that pinned him down, like a thousand trucks hovering just over his windpipe, threatening to snap it like a twig. His heart pulsed wildly in his ears, screaming in his system as he realized just how much danger he had put himself in. He struggled savagely, trying to kick out at the beast and not gaining any foothold while scrambling to remember his Military training. His chest began to heave in panic, ribs creaking as his lungs desperately begged for more air than he was being given. He could feel fear threatening to overtake him and send his mind into chaos like a whirling dervish.

He realized with a distant kind of horror that he had dropped The Clicker.

It lay on the floor, swept aside forcefully by the creature's impossibly long tail.

Beats of three.

He could feel sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead as the creature pressed down harder. He whimpered as he tried to claw at his throat. An instinctual, useless action. It offered no relief.

_FourFourFour._

A part of him recalled one time when he had gotten into a scrap with his father. Da had been drinking all day, and John had come home to find him in one of his rages. Except this fight hadn't gone like they usually did. Normally, the older man had thrown in a few hits then quickly gotten bored, uninterested because John never screamed and rarely fought back. This time though he hadn't seemed to care, and the beating had gone on for hours. John could remember the way those fists had felt on his face, like a rock hitting him again and again in the jaw. By the third hour he had been sore all over. He broke down by the end and allowed himself to curl into a protective ball, crying silently all the time.

His Father had just laughed.

He had gotten what he wanted.

Then his Da had taken his belt to him, and John hadn't been able to keep quiet. Harry had come home just in time to stop his father from choking him to death using the piece of leather. Of all the fights he had, that one had been one of the worst, because John had been unsure if he would actually live. Most of the time, he could handle Da's moods, because he had always known that eventually it would end. When that buckle though had dug into his trachea, he hadn't been so sure.

The same kind of panic from that day was flooding his system now, hot and molten and painful.

_Breathe John!_

_You have to breathe._

He struggled to get enough air, the Dragon's grip only offering small streams of oxygen to reach his battered lungs. His vision became fuzzy at the edges despite his effort. John wondered for a moment what it would be like to die in such a gloomy way, killed his first day trying to train his Dragon because he was stupid and had felt pity for something that could eat him whole. Harry probably would mourn for a bit, but she tended to cope with sadness by drowning herself in spirits. Just like their Father. John would be nothing but the burning sensation of a bottle of Jack Daniels swishing down her throat.

The thought made him want to kick himself. Now was not the time for despair.

_What do I do? What did that damn pamphlet say?!_

Interestingly enough, he couldn't recall anything that had seemed particularly useful. He wasn't even sure if the Monster would be able to understand him if he begged for mercy, because not all Dragons learned the Human language, especially if they were in the Kennels for a long time. Many couldn't read or write. John couldn't even pass French class in secondary school, much less learn Dragon-Tongue by some miracle in five seconds-the amount of time he guessed he would soon black-out. The thing seemed determined to strangle him as slowly as possible.

However he begged anyway, little gasping noises at the back of his throat that were probably unheard. Even John wasn't completely sure he succeeded in making them.

While it was partly true that Sherlock wanted to watch the Human eventually faint if only for a cruel sense of justice; he wasn't pinning the soldier to the wall for no reason. Though he continued up his menacing air, his head pounded steadily with a drumming pain that made him feel like he was going to throw up.

In truth, he was feeling slightly dizzy.

The sudden lunge had cost him, had made his heart begin to pound loudly in his chest, so loudly that it distracted him from what he was doing. Like a dripping tap, it was itching at the back of his head and making his revenge decidedly less enjoyable. Half of him recognized he was partially using the Human to lean on so that his knees didn't buckle.

He felt hot.

Too hot.

The burning had gotten steadily worse, from a simmering flame to a raging fire. His flesh crawled with it like a thousand ants scurrying over his skin and branding him. Though he had once felt a cool touch, it seemed to have been consumed by the raging inferno. He was sure his body was almost as warm as a Human's.

His arm shook, but it wasn't entirely with rage. It was with weakness, and he scowled at it and made it tighten on the young man's throat so that his uncooperative fingers wouldn't lose their resolve.

He could kill him.

He had the power to.

He would kill him.

He realized absently that he was beginning to pant.

His tongue lolled out of his sharp mouth against his will, his chest expanding as he heaved air into his lungs. Though he was reared up on his hind legs, the floor swayed perilously under him, like a ship tossing and turning in the waves of a black storm.

John thought he might be imagining it as his brain hallucinated from lack of air, but he nearly wept with relief as he felt the Dragon's claws loosen slightly. There was a strange sort of unfocused glaze to the creature's eyes, like it couldn't quite see what was really in front of it. Then again John didn't put much stalk into his own vision right at that moment, as it was fading in and out from black to colour. The young man felt his limbs growing heavy and static filling his ears.

It became harder to will his lungs to move.

They started and stopped in spasms.

It was just as John thought he might finally pass out that the soldier remembered one piece of information from the training he had all those weeks ago.

_Dragons are territorial. By nature they like to claim things._

And slowly, an impossible idea came to him, trickling into his head like river water pattering over the heavy stones filling his head. One that in theory could work but in practice was highly unlikely.

It was risky.

He knew it was.

Already he was dealing with a creature that was mad at him, and probably wouldn't hesitate under normal circumstances to rip his throat out. But John figured he was probably already dead anyway if he didn't do something, so he thought it over in his mind longer than he might have in another situation.

He knew he didn't have much time either way. Eventually the Dragon would gather its resolve, even if it was confused and sick. It was quite possible it wouldn't read his cues properly, or that it was too far gone in the fever of its mind to register any kind of passiveness or signs for peace. Still, he had to try.

Otherwise he was certain he would wind up a popsicle on a stick for the beast.

That is if Dragons ate people at all.

John wasn't sure, though he had heard horror stories.

His thoughts unconsciously became soothing and non-threatening as he made up his mind. Just like with his Da.

_Do not fight back, do not retaliate. Become distant, cut yourself off. You are an island, and nothing actually hurts unless you let it hurt. Don't show any aggression._

He would try.

John slowly let his body go slack, allowing the Dragon's arm to support all of his weight as he lowered his gaze submissively from the monster's piercing stare. His hand, which had come up to try and futilely fight against the creature's claws, carefully lowered to his side and went limp. Tentatively, the young man evened out his breathing as best as he could.

He heard its growls lower slightly in response, but he dared not look up. Not unless he wanted to risk accidentally meeting its gaze again and risking confrontation. He schooled his expression into a blank slate, free of all discomfort or anger and becoming plain and ordinary.

He could feel the claws loosen some more.

_Just a little bit further. I've got to seem totally harmless._

John thought. He took a deep breath then, because what he was about to do would put him in a very vulnerable position. However, he didn't think he had much choice at this point. He was already beginning to get more air into his lungs, and now they cried greedily for him to continue. Letting his eyes flutter shut as if feigning sleep, the young man bore the most vulnerable part of him towards the Dragon's teeth.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head to the side. Exposing his throat in a universal sign of submission. His thoughts went in a loop instinctively, repeating a mantra in his head that flowed in a constant circle.

_I am not a threat. I am not a danger. I am nothing. I am not worth your energy to kill. Please don't eat me. I am not a threat..._

Sherlock felt the shift in energy beneath him like a light-switch turning off, though his head was muddled enough that he didn't quite know what to do with it at first. His instincts told him that his fight or flight response wasn't as necessary any more, and part of it he knew was because the Human in his grip had stopped fighting him. No.

It was more than that.

In fact he had become totally unresponsive.

Like the clay doll a daughter of a soldier had once thrown into the bars of his Kennel, frail and boneless.

At first, the Dragon wondered if maybe he had gone unconscious. But no, he could see the slow rise and fall of the Human's chest.

rhythmic and steady.

Forcibly calm.

A painting of relaxed submission that Sherlock did not normally associate with Humans.

At first his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and though his growls became weaker with both exhaustion and confusion, he was genuinely fascinated by the way the Human before him had changed in demeanour so quickly. Only a moment before he had fought appropriately, snarling and hitting even though Sherlock had barely felt it through the tough armour of his scales. In return he had fed off of the wired energy that the young man had explosively generated about John, using it to fuel his own rage and taste for blood as he watched him struggle like a cat pinning down the tail of a mouse.

But now it was gone, replaced by a meek cool that the Dragon couldn't use to spark his fury quite as effectively. Instead it set off a different set of emotional responses from him, ones less destructive and annoyingly more protective. He frowned, scales turning a confused and questioning teal colour, before melting away into the desire to make sure that the Human before him stayed submissive. After all, it could be a trap.

He could be pretending, and then he would take this room over and force Sherlock back into his Crate with the awful clicking thing that made his very insides roil with hate.

His Dragon instincts prodded at him, demanded he claim the territory about him, now that there was no threat to himself. Reluctantly his grip loosened on the Human, the man's thoughts weak and docile. Sherlock didn't trust him, but he sensed no fight left in the man before him. John's mind was in a fixed state of servility.

Babbling, actually, in fear.

Yes, Sherlock could put his energy to a much better use. He could Mark his territory, claim the room as his own.

_Mine now._

He thought possessively, and growled once in a threatening way as if daring the Human to challenge him for it.

John didn't.

The Dragon whirled about, a different kind of energy taking him over and demanding that he put the excess adrenaline he had just accumulated to good use.

He had to hurry too, because he could smell other Dragons about, and his fevered mind cautioned that they could try and take the place if he didn't Claim it soon. The thought made Sherlock bare his teeth in anger.

_No._

_My room!_

**_Can't have!_**

He was fiercely glad in that moment as he bounded over, testing the lock to make sure it would hold. Good. He nodded in satisfaction. It was strong. Nothing could come in then while he set to work. It didn't really occur to him in his hazed state of mind that nothing could get out, either. His instincts were beginning to take over, and they demanded that he view any protection as good protection.

John wanted to sob in relief when he felt the claws release from his neck.

Instead he just breathed more deeply, hands trembling at his sides and sweat running down his neck as he dared himself to look up through his lashes at the Dragon's agile form.

Its focus had slowly moved away from him, eyes sweeping over the expanse of the room with an almost nervous energy. The Dragon's eyes roved over the four walls, taking in its prison for the first time. Strangely though, it didn't seem perturbed by it. The angry, deafening snarls it had once been using had stopped almost completely, making way for a kind of trickling burble, like the Dragon wasmuttering to itself. John could hear Dragon-Tongue mixed into the strange noise, and he didn't even wince when he was abruptly dropped onto the ground. Instead he curled into a compact ball, pressing himself against the wall as he took in great shuddering breaths. The Dragon, distracted now for whatever reason, backed away from him slowly, blue eyes flicking about the room with a sort of driven impulse.

It was almost as if it wasn't so much disturbed at being held in a strange room with no windows and only one door, but pleased.

But that didn't make any sense, at least to John. Then again he was Human, so he supposed Dragons thought differently. Perhaps the creature had only known the small Cages of the Kennel, and this was how it responded to a larger space compared to his past ones. The thought sent a small spark of pity flowing through John's chest, but it was tiny when compared to his overwhelming relief at his life no longer being actively threatened. He sighed as he leaned his head back against the wall, shuddering with suppressed emotion that was flowing to the surface now that the wake of adrenaline-induced bravery had passed. He struggled to get his breathing steady, tears of alleviation threatening to fall even as he watched the beast cautiously, lowering his eyes whenever the Dragon's gaze snapped back to him as if to make sure he was still a quivering mess on the floor.

He watched as it slowly walked over to the wall to the right, curiously sniffing the expanse of the room and rubbing itself against its walls in an experimental kind of way, kind of like a giant cat. It made a small, pleased sound at whatever result it got in response, inhaling deeply along the line it had just made in the crumbling wallpaper. The beast had sort of whiskers at the end of its muzzle, and they moved as it brushed against the beaten walls.

The young man watched, fascination mixing with fear even as he slowly shuffled towards the door crab-like, just in case he had to make a quick escape. The Dragon continued its strange rubbing dance along the wall until it reached the far corner, where it stood on its hind legs and pressed its forepaws up at the spot where ceiling met wall. John winced and almost clapped his hands to his ears as a horrible screeching like nails on a chalkboard hit him as the Dragon's claws cut Marks into the corner, silvery in the concrete and thoroughly vivid and bright. When the beast stepped away, the Marks glittered with a kind of strange power that made John feel safe and warm.

Sherlock paused once to admire his own handiwork, nodding at the little spell of protection he had used. It was only a small enchantment, and most Dragons would be able to break it, but he was proud of himself given the fact that he could barely keep his eyes open.

Then he set about to the other walls.

His instincts were being satisfied, and it felt good. Even if he wasn't feeling well, he felt an instinctual happiness at allowing his Claiming Instincts to take over, Marking his new territory with careful deliberation and attention to detail. He made sure each claw Mark was clearly visible and that his scent was rubbed over everything he couldn't scratch to pieces. It was a manic sort of energy, compulsive and compelling, and something he couldn't wholly control. His rational mind faded away, forgetting completely about the blonde Human staring at him from the far wall until he came full circle, all four corners completed.

John watched as the Dragon muttered something in satisfaction when it was done, noting how it limped slightly as it came to relax finally just beside its Crate.

Its energy was completely spent.

Sherlock couldn't move if he tried; he was much too sleepy now. His remaining fury melted into the walls themselves, exhaustion tugging at him, a demanding Mistress.

Darkness pulled at him with sordid hands, the pain in his skin begging for blissful unconsciousness that he could not deny any longer. A small part of him warned him that the Human in the corner staring at him could be dangerous still, but Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to worry. After all, he could still hear its thoughts, and they had kept up a pleasingly steady stream of servile tones the entire time.

He could eat it tomorrow, he reasoned, if he felt like it. Yes, he so did love breakfast. Food in general, actually, was quite good. He hadn't been fed in quite awhile, and then it had only been rabbits. They had often been frozen, and that always left a foul taste in his mouth.

Though right now he really didn't really feel like eating. His stomach was doing harsh flips inside of him, and his intestines felt as if they were tying themselves into knots.

The Dragon didn't think he could eat anything, not unless it stopped the burning inside him.

Maybe if it was something cool.

Snow maybe?

He thought snow would be cool.

Or ice.

Yes, that sounded right in his mind.

Some nice ice.

Sleepily, Sherlock imagined a mountain far away, made of ice towers and delicious freezing snow.

John watched in utter disbelief as the beast curled around its Crate like it was the only home it had ever known, a large yawn tearing from its throat before it shifted a dreaming lavender purple, like the colour of candy floss at a fair. He watched in fascination and horrified amusement as the creature rested its muzzle against its forepaws, slitted eyes sliding closed like a giant pet as its tail came to curl about its scaly hide. He was uncomfortably aware of how he just nearly avoided being strangled to death as he rubbed at his throat, trying not to cough as he looked at the huge beast before him, clear in the light where before it had been but a shadow in The Kennels.

Now that the creature seemed to have settled, John could see it for what it was without fear lacing his vision. And he gaped, because he knew in that moment that he had not been expecting to care for something like this at all.

Bloody_**huge.**_

It was his first thought, eyes tracing the lean curve of the thing's back, the spines decorating it a dark black like its claws. It was about the size of a Clydesdale horse, and John got the distinct impression as he saw the ribs that protruded predominantly from its middle that it was on the _small_ end of its weight scale. It was also long, serpentine in shape, yet not as snake-like as a Chinese Dragon. It muscles underneath the flesh, rope-like tendons that quivered with power despite a life of malnourishment and mistreatment. Its arms and legs especially held a powerful sort of quality, and its hands and feet were long and almost Human-like in the sense that they were built to grip things. They were the approximate size of dust-bin lids. Finally, there was the length of its tail and horns. Like a live snake the tail twitched even in the beasts' sleep like it had a mind of its own as it thrashed agitatedly. John curled further against the wall, unwilling to be speared alive by its whip-like power by accident. The creature's horns crested the top of its head like twin daggers, dark black and sitting between two ears that flicked in a goat-like manner at any kind of noise.

Its collar sat about its neck, a tag glinting softly in the light, the faint silver etching of a name not visible from where John doesn't plan on getting any closer. He might have had a penchant for danger, but he was not stupid. As it was, he was still vitally aware of his mortality in the bruises he was sure were forming around his throat.

And yet for all of its demonic appearance, it was sleeping like a kitten before him.

The young man shook his head slowly, wondering if perhaps he had gone completely mad in the short drive over in Dodge's car.

It made more sense than this.

That he was sitting here, watching a monstrous Dragon sleep.

Insanity was the only logical excuse.

John was undecided at that moment which was more terrifying.

A monster that could pretend to be a lamb.

Or a lamb that could act just like a monster.

But he knew that soon he'd have to make a choice.

Whether or not he actually could bring himself to go through with it, and whether or not he could actually take care of something so impossibly, ridiculously deadly.

Because it was also extremely evident that for all of the creature's power and energy, the Dragon was unwell. Its ribs were like rows of shelves on its side, and John was sure that if he could touch them he could fit an entire hand in the space between. The creature's scales shifted as it slept with flashes of pained red, and there was a steady stream of foggy breath as the Dragon panted in its sleep. Then there was the arching forms of its wings, which looked if possible worse off than he had originally thought. The black, sluggish fluid that the wound had been oozing covered most of the creature's back, and spread just over its shoulder in a greasy, sickly kind of way. It looked like motor oil after it had been used.

The pamphlet would have nothing to say on what to do about that, he was sure of that much.

Sighing softly to himself, John wondered if it might not be easier just to hang himself and get it over with now. He was completely incompetent with animals; he hadn't even owned a dog. He had tried to keep a cat once, but his father had found its hiding place in his closet while he had been at school and had drowned it in the creek by the forest.

He had been ten at the time.

He had been beaten over it until his back had bled with welts.

Since then he hadn't dared bringing any more animals across the threshold into his home. A part of him was honestly terrified. Not about getting hurt, but that the Dragon wouldn't survive under his care. That he'd accidentally kill it, or that it would refuse to eat out of spite or something like that and John wouldn't be able to do anything but watch as it slowly faded away. He curled his knees against his chest, pressing his forehead against them to stop the endless swirl of thoughts that plagued him. It was no good, because even though he closed his eyes, the past still flickered like there was a projector in his brain. Panicking would do him no good, he knew that, but it made him feel better in that moment to do so.

When people panicked they could get killed in a battle. John was normally very good at controlling his emotions so that they didn't overwhelm him, even if he couldn't lie for crap and blushed like a teenager when he was embarrassed. He had proven several times to be better than his sister, who had often gotten the switch for mouthing off until she could scarcely move from the floor.

He didn't often lash out, but now his hands balled into angry fists, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to strike out at something, to make someone bleed. It was a quick flash of unadulterated fury, and it stole his breath away with its potency.

However as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the Dragon shifted uneasily in its sleep. John froze, mind going blank and anger disappearing to make way once again for fear and submission. The Dragon's tail lashed restlessly for just a moment.

After a while though, the creature's muscles loosened from their tension once again, and the young man blew out a deep-seated breath of relief.

He knew most Dragons were at least somewhat telepathic around him. He had found out in training with the Army that he was what was called a_**Thrall**_, someone extremely perceptive to the electrical brainwaves Dragons gave off naturally. However he hadn't expected the Dragon he had chosen to immediately take such _advantage_ of it, considering most of the ones he had met before had regarded his Gift with barely-concealed contempt. John himself hadn't found much use for it either, other than the fact that it made Servants look at him strangely sometimes when he went shopping for food.

It occurred to John then as he sat on the floor that it might be a good time to leave, come back with better ammunition, and possibly calm his frayed nerves with a cup of tea (probably with something a little stronger) and get his head back into the game as it were. The Clicker still lay abandoned on the floor, but he was hesitant to pick it up. A part of him recoiled at even the idea of even using it.

However he remembered the way the creature's claws had so easily lifted him nearly three feet off of the ground and clenched his jaw, forcing himself to be appropriately armed just in case.

He would not allow himself to use sentiment as an excuse to not be prepared properly. He was dealing with a wild animal, and John had to treat it as such. There couldn't be any mercy, not until he was absolutely sure he wouldn't get seriously wounded. It was better in the end for both he and the Dragon, as if he wound up in the hospital there was little doubt in the young man's mind of what would become of the beast. Pocketing the little metal remote, he slowly got to his feet. His eyes stayed trained on the Dragon, but it didn't stir at the sound of John's movements. It was lost in a land of feverish dreams, kicking slightly like a dog in slumber. John spared a brief moment to wonder what the creature would even_ dream_ of, but then he shook his head and got back to the task at hand.

Carefully, he slunk along the wall towards the door, forcing his breathing to be measured and calming the heartbeat pounding in his ears. He saw the creature's ears flick towards him, but other than that there was no response. It seemed that the beast was too lost in its own consciousness, drifting like a piece of wood on a sea that John couldn't imagine the colour of.

When he finally found the key in his shirt pocket and fumbled the lock open he paused, turning to look one last time at the beast curled underneath the bare bulb of light hanging from the ceiling. Like this, the creature looked somehow just a little smaller, a little less threatening. It whimpered softly in its sleep as if in pain, and John was nearly overwhelmed with how he could sense a quiet sort of sentience within it, past the animal rage he had witnessed. Softly, he closed the door behind him and turned the lock, the sound making the quietest of clicks before he tucked the key back into his pocket. Then, still leaning against the door, his legs gave out on him. He slid to the floor, silent sobs racking his body as he cried over the shreds of his sanity.

Then, finally accepting the loss of his mind, John Watson dragged himself to his feet, climbing up the stairs to his flat. He almost didn't notice the brown-paper package waiting for him, leaning like a visitor against the wall by the door. The young man couldn't remember sending away for anything, so he paused at the crest of the last step and stared, one blonde brow lifting in surprise. It seemed unlikely it was from anyone he knew. Harry couldn't afford to send him anything and his Father wouldn't have bothered. His only real friend was Mike, but he would have given John anything he needed to in person instead of leaving it at his flat. But perhaps it was for Mrs. Hudson or one of the other tenants?

He approached it like one might approach a bomb, bending down to scoop up the package and weigh it critically in his hands. It was quite heavy, John noted in surprise. It was vaguely rectangular in shape and didn't rattle as if it were a box of something. He examined the package a moment longer, noticing a slip of paper tucked into the string tying it together tastefully. When John took the little folded envelope out from its place, he could tell the make of the material was expensive. It felt crisp and weighted, and was the colour of snow. Written on the cover of it in dark green ink was his name in a neat, cursive script he didn't recognize.

_TO: John Hamish Watson_

It was the use of his middle name that caught his attention. Not many people knew his middle name, because he frankly loathed the fact that it was the first name of his Da. He rarely even used it when people asked for his full signature, and he was certain none of his friends back at his District had known it. Opening the card of paper, he saw more of the same curling script, written with impeccable eloquence and spelling that made John acutely think of opulence and royalty.

_Hope you find this to your Benefit._

_Take care of him._

_-An interested party_

"Interested party?"

The young man stared in disbelief at the card, eyebrows raised so far in surprise that John had to work to school his expression back into a face of relative calm. Again he looked this way and that, as if some person might jump out from behind the bannister of the stairs at any moment and tell him that he was part of some ridiculous game show or that they were pulling his leg. There was no one. The flats were all dead and still with night so that John felt like an intruder, standing outside of his own door. The package lay sealed in his hands, and part of the young man knew he should probably eye the strange gift with more suspicion. However the last words had caught his attention, leading John to step inside **221 B **with the parcel still gripped in his fingers.

Take care of him.

There was little doubt in his mind of who 'him' was. The question was why.

It would only occur to him later that the post didn't come on Sunday, and that normally any kind of package demanded a signature. John didn't really think of those things at all as he sat down at the small table in the kitchen and unwrapped the package, tearing at the brown paper as curiosity got the better of him and he couldn't wait any longer. When he was finished, he stared mystified at a heavy, leather-bound tome sitting before him, the forest-green material embossed on the front with a golden-engraved title that made absolutely no sense.

_**The Book Of Dragonology. A Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**_


	5. Follow The Trail

**So, I'm glad all of you are enjoying so far, and felt that since I got such lovely reviews that I'd treat today with an extra chapter :) Enjoy!**

* * *

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Rot Wing (Illness): **__Rot Wing is an infection that is most common when large masses of Dragons are forced to share close quarters together, and is a sort of rash that affects the sensitive skin in the webbing of the Dragon's wings. It is characterized by the "oozing" quality of the infection, the skin manifesting a thick, black, oily substance in an attempt to protect the scales underneath. By itself it is relatively easy to cure, and is not unlike Athlete's Foot in Humans. Some tea tree oil or other drying substance will kill off the bacteria that is affecting the area, and can be applied up to three times a day until signs of infection cease. However if left too long, Rot Wing has been known to eat into the soft tissue of the wing. In these rare instances, there have been reports of subjects having difficulty flying, and in extreme cases, being permanently disabled(see page 449 for more details)._

* * *

When Sherlock awoke, it was to find that the door to his new territory had been breached. His immediate response was to rear upwards onto his feet, lips peeling back from his teeth in the beginnings of a fearsome snarl.

However the sight that greeted him as he gathered his bearings made his growls halt and die before they passed his throat.

There, sitting in front of him innocently, was a frozen ice-cube that was just beginning to melt right in front of his nose. At first, he thought that perhaps he was still dreaming, and he frowned at the product of his imagination in annoyance and willed it to disappear so it would stop taunting him. It had happened before in the Kennels. He'd imagine food or drink and his mind would succumb to such weakness as to picture it materializing in front of him.

However, when the cube of ice didn't fade into his mind or change into some strange colour, he began to entertain the idea that it might be real.

And then he really looked at it with all of the shock and adoration such a glorious thing _deserved._

Before his more rational brain could warn him about the dangers of eating strange things in strange lands, he shrunk down into his half-Human form, fingers snatching the cool object and popping the delicious treat into his mouth greedily. He moaned in unabashed relief as the immediate soothing sensation of it as it slid down his throat, the sound low and needy and completely shameless in its volume.

_Gods_, it was heaven.

He bit into it to allow the shards of ice to melt more quickly so it would cool him faster. It was like a dying man in the desert finally finding an oasis to drink from, and the Dragon's eyes fluttered closed in ecstasy before they snapped open again to see the other ice-cube sitting for him just a little farther away. His pupils widened in cat-like interest.

He couldn't believe his _luck._

Like he was a Hatchling again still unable to control himself, his tail starting wagging in childlike excitation.

In fact, as Sherlock's eyes swept over the room, he saw an entire _trail_ of ice, leading around his Crate and out the door. It disappeared from view around the corner, but gave a promise of reward. Licking his chapped lips, the Dragon reached for another one, the cool sensation on his fingers mercifully sweet as he brought it to his lips and sucked on the second cube in contemplative thought.

A part of him wanted him to just follow the trail, eat each and every delicious frozen treat to help bring down the burning fever inside of him and not question gifts out loud. However the logical part of his brain pointed out to him that ice cubes did not just grow from the ground _obviously_, and that even if they did they most certainly would not grow in a curving single-file line out into the beyond. He knew a trap when he saw one, even with his brain half-fried and in distress. His eyes narrowed into calculating slits, noting that the Human had vanished at some point in the night.

Curious that he hadn't noticed.

His senses must have been truly muddled then the night before.

It was true he could barely remember anything of how he came to be here, or why he wasn't dead in the first place. He had almost been_ certain_ the Handlers had talked about putting him down...

But everything thing was hazy and ghost-like, indistinct like the blurred lens of a magnifying glass brought too close to one's face.

Inhaling deeply, he could smell the faint soapy-warm sent of the blonde man he vaguely remembered lingering about the trail of cubes, confirming his suspicions about a trap.

He wondered if the man thought him to be some kind of idiot, if he thought he'd fall for it so easily. Really, a child could build a better plan.

Sherlock snorted to himself in disgust even as he looked again at the trail with longing building a tight knot in his stomach.

His hands scratched at his collar roughly in thought, eyeing the ice-cubes with distrust as he debated with himself whether or not to take the rather obvious bait. On the one hand, it was evident that this was an optional choice. The young man hadn't forced him anywhere by using the clicking thing, nor had he implied any sort of violence towards Sherlock unless his life was directly threatened. He hadn't even used the zapping tools, and everyone always used those at least if only to make him understand his place.

He shuffled a little closer towards the door automatically, freezing just at the threshold to take another ice-cube and pop it into his mouth with gusto. He chewed for a moment, seeing that down the hall more of them glittered wetly under the dim lighting, promising relief from being so uncomfortably warm. He caught his infernal tail swaying again lightly, urging him onwards with bright and totally unfounded hopes of a soft bed and cool water to drink. However Sherlock refused his thoughts to go down that road, as he'd only be disappointed and twice as miserable later on if he did.

His jaw hardened, and he crossed his arms over his chest in resolute refusal.

No.

He would not play into this game.

He was above begging like some dog for treats or sweets, now matter how delicious and lovely.

His stubbornness lasted for about fifteen seconds before a strange and wonderful smell drifted past Sherlock's nose, perking his interest reluctantly. Something greasy and fatty and _delectable_ was wafting from upstairs, his sensitive nose catching the scent even though it was separated by walls and wood. His mouth watered, wing-tips twitching as the foreign smell of some kind of fried meat tantalized his olfactory senses and made them tingle with desire. His stomach clenched, screaming at him to move forward. He could have been drooling and he probably wouldn't have noticed, the flavour on his tongue so foreign and yet so impossibly wonderful that his eyes widened and the softest of whines pulled themselves from his throat.

He swallowed firmly and came back to himself. At least as much as he could.

Still, he was reluctant to leave his newly made territory. His instincts told him that another Dragon could come along and take it if he left so soon. However his logical voice whispered to him that his senses were being stupid and that no other Dragon would actively do so unless ordered to by their Masters. Still, he crouched next to the door and breathed a thin line of frost across the entrance into the hardwood, making a visible warning for intruders both Human and Dragon alike to watch their step.

It would have to do.

He was already trembling in want.

He could resist the tempting trail of cool ice no longer.

Sherlock scurried forward, abandoning his better reasoning just a bit so he could fully enjoy the sensation of not only filling his stomach but of cooling down. Each bite brought a brief moment of sated relief, glassy and wondrous. Each bite left him wanting more desperately than he had before. A low, needy sound whimpered from his lips in response. The ice-cube trail lead him up a flight of stairs, and though he kept a sharp ear and nose out for any sign of Humans, he didn't encounter any. His internal clock guessed it was probably about five in the morning, so he supposed it wasn't that unusual. Each step had a cube on it waiting patiently for him, so he spent quite awhile crouching on them and took stock of which ones creaked and which didn't for potential use later on (The tenth and the fourth). All the while the smell of cooking meat got headier and stronger, pulling the Dragon along more effectively than any sort of leash towards the door at the top of the steps. It was like the long-lost note of a song he could almost recall. Sherlock felt _compelled_ to come closer, his senses begging for him to indulge in reckless abandon for a change. It was in some ways more demanding than any kind of physical torture.

He kept it in iron control, creeping upwards slowly and refusing to break into a run, but he still couldn't stop his stomach from protesting its emptiness loudly or his nostrils from flaring with desire.

When he reached the top step, he saw that a black door was open for him, more ice-cubes inside. He looked at the gold-embossed letters in the centre of the door, pausing as he breathed in deeply the smell of a space lived in. The blonde man's scent was saturated into the floorboards, warm woodsy smells and tea with a soap undercurrent that only came with regular baths and good meals. There was no trace of acidic aggression in its flavour, only calm.

Sherlock paused, uncertain of crossing into someone else's territory. On the one hand, he could feel the temptation to enter like a physical pull in his gut, yet his honour demanded that he be invited in, even if it was a Human's domain. After all, he was no "savage" even if his senses told him otherwise. It would be like someone just entering _his_ new territory without permission, a thought that made him glance nervously back down the stairs. He lingered in the doorway, unable to move forward yet pinned at just the edge, muttering lowly in indecision under his breath. Dragon-Tongue curses flowed over his lips effortlessly without second thought. His voice was wild and rusted with strain. There was silence, heavy and pregnant as he listened for any noise other than the dull crackle of something cooking in the distance.

He nearly jumped when a soft voice sounded from somewhere inside the flat, calling out to him in Human-Speak calmly and quietly. His accent is as clear as his scent, and there is a lightness to his tone. Cautious... but friendly.

"You can come in, Dragon. I don't mind."

It was all Sherlock's tightly-strung senses needed. Unable to stop himself any longer, the Dragon warily stepped over the threshold of **221 B**, on alert for any kind of danger even as he popped another ice-cube into his mouth and crunched.

John found himself dressed in a woollen jumper, jeans and a blush-pink apron that he borrowed from Mrs. Hudson at five in the morning. He stared at the pan of bacon that was currently sizzling hotly before him on the stove, one hand resting absently in his pocket. The other was wound about the handle of fryer as he waited patiently for the Dragon downstairs to catch wind of its scent and make its way up the stairs.

Yup.

That's how it was.

Just a regular morning for John Watson, amateur Dragon Behaviourist.

He might've laughed if he wasn't aware of how royally screwed he was likely to be.

He felt like he stood a better chance of being eaten than the bacon.

Smiling to himself at the morbid joke, he chuckled mirthlessly under his breath as he flipped the food with an expert toss of the pan and a flick of his wrist.

A trick he had learned back at home.

Saved time.

It gave a gratifying pop and sizzle in response as the food turned and settled, the bacon curling predictably at the edges like crinoline on the skirt of a dress. He imagined it was laughing at him as it snapped and crackled, telling him off for the dark circles under his eyes and the cramp that had developed in his left hand slightly from writing so many notes. His spiral-bound notebook lay on the coffee table, cream pages now filled with his Doctor's script.

He supposed if it was laughing at him, then he probably deserved it.

He had spent the rest of the night up reading.

It turned out the book he had been so mysteriously gifted with was highly useful. It was also quite possibly highly _illegal_. Actually, John was _certain_ that the fact that it was entitled as a_ Memoir_ made it the kind of illegal that got people deported to third world countries and never seen or heard from again. There were strict laws about the kind of literature that was to be available to the public, and the soldier had known instinctively from first glance that this book was not on the list. England in particular was extremely choosy about what its citizens were allowed to read, and John had never before laid eyes on a name like _Mycroft Holmes._ With little reading material available to him as a child might have supposed under different circumstances that he had just never read a book by said author, but from page one those cream pages had spoken about fifty kinds of blasphemy. The kind of blasphemy where people spread rumours of your demise, and your sister wondered what happened to her "dear sweet Johnny" even while not looking at the suspicious circumstances of his disappearance... lest she be threatened to be made to 'disappear' as well.

Because for it to be a Memoir, it would mean that the book would have had to be written by...

Well.

He didn't want to consider it too closely.

After all, it had only been incriminating to him the moment he had decided in a fit of psychosis to actually_ read_ it.

In the end, he had only been able to resist his curiosity and desperation for so long before he had cracked the book open to the first page, admiring with a sort of distant horror the beauty of the clean swirling border that greeted him in golden ink on the inside. It was an elaborate sort of Celtic knot-work design, intricately detailed and all connected and interwoven with each other like the branches to a climbing vine. John had ran his finger over it and marvelled at the texture under his palm, noting in surprise that it was hand-inked.

He whistled lowly in disbelief.

_Well, at least I'll be able to say that the art alone was worth it when they arrest me._

That glum thought comforted him briefly before he pressed on.

Scribed in an old-fashioned sort of lettering, John found the Table of Contents, appearing to be handwritten and impeccably organized. Above it, written in bold ink, was a single definition surrounded by two hand-inked Wyverns, their tails being devoured by one another as they formed a ring about the paragraph.

_**Dragonology(Noun): **__The science of Dragons, it is a practice long forgotten in time. I myself am one of the last Dragonologists, though we once ranked in the thousands. It is the pursuit of knowledge in the area of Dragons, having stretched over a wide field from biology and behaviour to the physics of flight and the chemistry of Magic. Though not recognized openly by the government, I believe the science of Dragonology is the missing step between recognizing the motives and actions behind the modern-day Dragon, and truly understanding them. With this book, I hope to enlighten to the reader our true natures, and show the average Human that there is much more than meets the eye to their friendly neighbourhood servant._

_-M.H_

"Sounds like some sort of joke."

The young man had muttered sceptically, but hadn't protested further as he delved deeper into the vast pages of the book. After all, who would make something so complicated for something like a lark?

Poring into the cream-tinted pages, John soon found himself completely absorbed within seconds. his legs carried him to the tired-looking but comfortable chair that he loved so much and he himself down for the long haul.

He read the entire first chapter before he even realized what he was doing.

The soldier was utterly enraptured by the detailed and delicate drawings of a Dragon's anatomy, from everything to the muscular structure of a Chinese to the finite connection of joints that connected the bones of the wings of an English. He told himself that when he finally roused himself into focus that it was a Doctor's interest, nothing more, but soon found himself flipping through chapters. He read everything from behavioural issues, to language, to how to raise newborn Hatchlings. He only stopped to make himself a cuppa, and even then he read as he walked about the flat.

The book was a _thousand_ times more informative than any pamphlet he had ever seen, and provided the answers to hundreds of questions that John hadn't even _considered _asking until he read about them. By the end of the night, he found that he had learned more about Dragons in a single evening than he had in the _entire_ training course the month before. He had barely even scratched the surface of the book before he could feel dawn beginning to shine through the curtains in a muted grey through the windows. When John finally closed the book, he felt a small, new-found confidence cautiously blooming inside of his chest, growing from the ashes of despair and defeat from last night.

Maybe the situation wasn't so hopeless after all.

Then he had to try very hard to keep a small smile from his lips, trying to work its way past his earlier cynicism.

Still, he had to hustle if he wanted to be prepared before the Dragon woke up. Apparently, the creatures tended to be primarily nocturnal, but because his had fallen asleep because it was ill it would most likely wake irritable.

Probably not a good thing.

Predictable with his sort of luck.

So.

John would have to resort to shameless bribery to sweeten its mood.

Not a huge deal, he had done it all the time with Harry via red licorice sticks and soda pop.

He wound up rousing Mrs. Hudson from her bed, apologizing in advance before he asked her for any bags of ice cubes she could spare. Luckily, she only seemed a little tetchy as she lead him about in her pale white nightie. She gave him six full bags, even while emphatically telling him that she was _'not his housekeeper after all, so don't expect this all the time'_. The young man kissed her on the cheek in utter adoration as he spun away to set to work.

It felt good to have a steady goal in mind, a battle plan. John always worked better under orders, and now his mind soldiered on in quick and list-like fashion, crossing things off with precision as he set about doing them. First, he snuck back to _**221 C**__,_ trailing a liberal ice-cube trail for the Monster (taken from page 54 on _'How to assimilate your Dragon into a new environment', Section C-Northerns_)

Next, he padded to the bath, flicking on the light and turning on the cold water. It created a soft thundering noise of liquid hitting porcelain, mixing with sharp little clinks as he dumped his second bag of ice into the mix. He only turned it off after the tub was half-full, dipping his hand in and shivering as it came away dripping and ice-cold.

Well below freezing.

Perfect.

This way, he could convince the thing to not only bathe, but help lower its fever (Page 77 on _'Dealing with overheating in Northern species'_).

To make doubly sure, he also continued the trail of ice-cubes all the way to the bathtub, ensuring that the Dragon wouldn't mistake his motives or intent in case it was dizzy or confused. Normally, Dragons were almost telepathic they were so sensitive to changes in emotions, especially around John. However his had a fever, so it was quite possible the Dragon wouldn't be able to sense things with the same dexterity. He'd also have to take a closer look at that wing to determine what kind of sickness was afflicting the Dragon's skin, but that could be dealt with later on if he gained the creature's tolerance.

For now, it looked like something called _Rot Wing._

If.

Right now the main goal was to make sure the Dragon wouldn't die on him. Which if he didn't succeed here, he very well might according to the book.

It was strange, how a package delivered to him only a night before could suddenly become a sort of Bible to keep checking up on. Even as John broke out two packets of his best bacon into the frying pan, he checked the pages for_ 'tips on how to get your cranky Dragon to eat a decent meal'._

As the clock ticked on, his heart began to pound in his throat. John suddenly hoped, intensely and desperately, that he hadn't been scammed. That this wasn't some sort of cosmic joke on him, and that he hadn't been taken for a ride. Because if he was wrong, if the book was a lie, then he honestly wasn't sure what he would do.

There was no plan B, no secondary action.

He had no right path versus wrong path to take.

He stood at no crossroads.

There was only one direction.

Forward or bust.

No.

There was one other option... but it was one he didn't want to take.

He knew what he would be _forced_ to do, and it was such a horrible thought that the young man shivered violently and nearly burned himself on the stove-top because of his visceral disgust at the idea.

John kept his ears strained for any kind of movement from below, licking a nervous tongue over his lips and hearing nothing at first but the sizzling of bacon crackling in the pan. Then, ever so quietly, he heard a small crunch of an ice cube being bitten into by sharp teeth. The young man had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from whooping in triumph, keeping his eyes dutifully trained on the cooking food before him. Feigning focus on the task.

Slowly, he listened as the crunching noises became gradually louder, followed by the familiar muttering burble of the creature talking to itself. From the tone, it sounded like it was having a heated inner debate, even as out of the corner of his eye John caught a glimpse of a happy jade-green tail wagging animatedly at the doorway as the Dragon paused at the frame of the flat. Though the young man didn't dare turn his head, he saw from his peripheral vision the hesitation of the creature as it paused at the threshold of the door. Having shrunk down to its half-human form so that John could see those pale blue eyes shimmer in suspicion under those dark curls and his nostrils flare, The Dragon took in the smells of the flat. The soldier noted clinically how the Dragon's eyes flicked to the kitchen unerringly, scenting the flavour of bacon that is coasting in the air with languid appreciation. When he breathed in, the protruding expanse of his ribs heaved unhealthily. He exhaled frigid fog.

John almost smiled as he saw the darting of a pink scrap of tongue swipe the creature's upper lip in desire. Its wings were quivering in indecision as it looked with barely-veiled want at not only the promise of food but at the continuation of ice-cubes trailing past the door. Still, it sat on its haunches, not quite willing to move forward. John frowned, wondering in his head what could be wrong. He had read that usually food for a starved Dragon would lure it more than anything else, and that Northern's especially would desire something cold. He hadn't had any ice-cream readily available (not to mention it would have ruined the hardwood) and a small part of him wondered if maybe it would have been a better choice. However he couldn't change it now, and he racked his brains to try and figure out some way to get the Dragon over the proverbial fence of the doorway.

His mind flashed unwillingly towards last night, when the Dragon had rubbed itself all along the walls of the room and Marked the corners. He had read in The Book that it had been a sign of territorialism, something common in Red Card cases in general. It was a dominance issue, a display of power.

Yes, the creature was territorial... in fact he had probably Claimed the basement flat with such ferocity that poor Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be able to sell the room out to anyone ever again lest she have to explain the claw marks. The Dragon had used his scent, had wanted to make sure that no one would enter a space that he perceived as his.

Slowly, it dawned on him, slow and trickling in his head.

Oh.

_Oh._

Manners. Dragons were apparently really picky about them. John had been aware of it, even in the way Cerioth had spoken in the car to the other Dragons when they had been driving home from the Kennels. Was the creature hovering there... because it wanted _permission_ to enter a territory it didn't own?

Softly, John drew a hesitant breath. If he was wrong, he might very well send the Dragon bolting back to its room. However, if he was correct...

"You can come in, Dragon. I don't mind."

He said it softly, but the creature's head tilted towards him with sharpness, indicating it had heard the young man's words clearly. Slowly, John watched out of the corner of his eye as the creature took one last uneasy look about it, as if it was expecting some kind of trap. It's scales flashed uncertain , tentatively it reached out one pale and long Humanoid hand, creeping forwards past the door to snatch another ice-cube from the hardwood and putting it in its mouth. John couldn't help his grin then, because an indescribable feeling bubbled up in his chest at that moment.

It was a small victory, but he had felt like he had just run a marathon.

One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

He grinned to himself, flipping the bacon onto a plate.

In that moment, John felt like he could be invincible.

Of course, for every step forward, there would inevitably always come to be two steps one would be forced to take back.

The Dragon followed the trail of ice-cubes with a single-minded determination and speed, until it came past the entrance to the kitchen. There it hovered uncertainly, torn between following the source of the delicious-smelling meat and finding out where the trail of ice-cubes lead to. He could see the outline of the young man standing between him and the plate of glistening fried food, his teeth baring in defensive suspicion as he lowered himself into a slow and coiled crouch. John, to his credit didn't turn around, even though his neck prickled in warning that a predator was stalking him. He kept his voice low and conversational even though he wasn't entirely sure if the creature understood him.

"I'm giving you a choice. You will get both in the end, but would you like to eat first, or have a nice cool bath?"

The Dragon tilted its head at both the words eat and cool bath, blue eyes slitting in interest as it continued its stream of commentary to itself. Dragon-Tongue was a strange, purring and clicking sort of language, and John found there was an almost therapeutic edge to the mumbling. It was like a comforting rumble right by his ear. As if the Dragon didn't even realize he was doing it. Though the creature flinched violently at his voice, it didn't run away. Instead it continued to eye the bacon hungrily, gluing itself to the entrance of the doorway even as John risked turning around slowly and deliberately. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, making sure his thoughts echoed submission even as he placed the plate down onto the tile and slid it a couple of inches forward in the creature's direction. All the while, he kept his voice low and calm.

"I won't hurt you. Go on and take it if you want, it's yours. All yours. I'm giving it to you."

And then, so quietly that even Sherlock strained to hear him, John added his name.

"I'm called John. John Watson."

Then he sat himself slowly down in the far corner of the kitchen just like he had in _**221 C**_, becoming immobile and staring calmly at his lap as he sat cross-legged against the back of the fridge.

Sherlock didn't know what to make of this strange Human, that didn't refer to himself as 'Master' like the others did that had tried to break him. In fact, most things the strange man had done so far had gone against all of the Dragon's past experiences, leaving him feeling strangely off-balance and desperately confused. He clicked to himself in irritation of the discrepancies.

So far, this _Jawn_, as that was the closest he could come to pronouncing the Human's name at the moment, had acted distinctly not-Human since he had met him. Not only had he not used the Clicking Thing to discipline Sherlock for hurting him (because even from here Sherlock could see the bruises on the young man's throat, like purple bands wrapping about his trachea delicately) but he had so far just given him a territory that was _his_. Now he was offering him _food,_ and not that horrible kibble he had been forced to eat in the Kennels. Not even half-frozen rabbit had this kind of promise behind it.

No, he could smell the richness and the flavour of it, even as he stared at the plate fixedly. It did not make sense, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel as if he'd wandered into some kind of faerie land. Was it possible he was just having a very vivid dream? To make sure, he brought his arm to his lips and bit the inside of his wrist hard enough that it began to bleed. He startled when he heard the Human make a small, distressed noise, staring at the copper liquid that streamed down his wrist with panic. Hastily, Sherlock licked over the wound, sealing it shut with his saliva before the Human could punish or yell at him. Still he waited, just to make sure that the man wouldn't reach into his pocket and reveal the little silver remote and point it at him.

When no attack came, the Dragon couldn't wait any longer. He dove forward in a burst of speed, snatching the plate and receding once again to crouch just outside the kitchen, digging ravenously into his meal. There was only a little of the bacon, and part of that was by design. John was fairly sure the Dragon hadn't eaten a proper meal in quite awhile, and he was worried that if he fed it too much it would cause it to be sick. He watched as the beast devoured the meat with zeal, licking even the crumbs off of the plate with a searching tongue. When it was done it smacked its lips and looked at him with an almost tentatively hopeful expression. Very, very slowly it pushed the plate back across the floor, the dish moving along the smooth hardwood to come and rest just at John's feet. The creature wagged its tail in a whacking sort of motion, and its scales across its nude form were a hungry sort of red-pink, almost like the colour of bacon itself. The young man almost laughed, feeling suddenly like he was looking at an overly-eager puppy sitting at the edge of his kitchen. However he ignored the wide-blue eyes the creature was making at him, turning to him firmly this time and making a motion to scoot with his hands.

"Bath first, then you can have more if you think you can handle it."

It was like his words flipped a switch.

Immediately, the rather cute expression melted into a snarl, the Dragon's spine bristling defensively as it mistook John's chastising tone for anger. The young man instantly froze, lifting his hands above his head in a sign of passiveness. Still the creature curled into a sharp ball like an angered cat, its eyes narrowed to slits as growls tore from his throat and made the walls vibrate with their power. Thoughts once again circling calm tones, John searched the kitchen for something suitably distracting to draw the creature out of its fury. His eyes landed on an abandoned bag of ice he had left on the table, and slowly he reached over to take a cube out of the package. John felt rather than saw the sudden shift in energy. Anger slipping into a kind of suspicious curiosity. Sherlock flinched slightly when the young man lifted his hand in a fist, but soon leaned forward when he saw that something was held in its fingers. When he saw the ice-cube his fever became apparent to himself once again, the heat making him pant slightly just at the thought. His head turned unwillingly to the trail of melting cubes that disappeared down the hall of the flat. For just a moment, a strange image of footprints in snow flickered across the Dragons' mind, then he shook his head clear and turned back towards the Human called 'Jawn'. His growls lessened as slowly, the Human came forward with the piece of ice in his hands.

"Easy now."

The young man cautioned, placing it a few inches away from the Dragon-man's hands as he crept closer. It was the most intimate proximity he had experienced with the creature before that hadn't ended in violence. Already John's neck was beginning to prickle with sweat. The creature kept up its stream of growls, but they softened as he licked his lips thirstily and eyed the cube before him. His scales glittered cautious vermilion as he tentatively reached for the gift, eyeing the soldier warily before him and scanning him for the slightest indication of attack. Again the Human stayed slack and relaxed, balancing on the balls of his feet as he sat back on his haunches. A mimic of Sherlock's own form. When the Dragon snatched the ice-cube this time, he found himself rewarded with a word he had never heard used in connotation with himself before.

"Good. That's good..." And John trailed off, staring at the collar around the Dragon's neck and reading the name inscribed on it.

"...Sherlock?"

He watched as the creature startled visibly, curling away from the sound of his own name in someone else's mouth. The Dragon spat at him with slitted eyes and abruptly turned, waltzing away to the trail of ice-cubes after deeming him no threat. However his tail was still wagging, betraying his silent contentment. Its swishing form flashed cloud blue-grey. John felt a small smile tugging his lips, and he grinned widely as he muttered the name in his head.

"Sherlock... Sherlock the Dragon."

He was rewarded with the sound of a half-man half-beast creature diving into the tub of ice-cubes, a happy chirruping burbling from inside the bathroom. John laughed under his breath, listening to the strange chittering noises the creature made to itself and feeling not unlike a parent hearing his child speak and walk for the very first time.

_Though if child-rearing is this difficult, then it might be for the best after all that I'm not in a serious relationship right now._

The Dragon listened in confusion to the peals of almost hysterical giggles coming from the kitchen as he dipped his head under the cool crest of water, wondering at the insanity of Humans even as his fever was washed away by the sweet kiss of frozen ice.


	6. To Walk Through Fire Unburned

**I just want to reiterate my thanks, and also mention again that if anyone wants to read ahead, my AO3 account is further updated! :) it's the same pen-name. As it is I will continue frequent updating until I have caught up here...**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Hygiene For Dragons (Northerns): **__Being a subspecies with extremely delicate internal body temperatures, many new_

_owners find themselves asking questions about their Dragon's grooming habits. Though Dragons are normally extremely clean creatures (at least in terms of personal hygiene), there are times and circumstances in which an person might find themselves having to groom their Dragon for them. For Northerns, it is always a good rule of thumb to start with an ice bath. If the Dragon is suffering from illness, it will bring down any kind of fever, and if they are injured, it will help numb the wound. Pour about four large bags of ice cubes into a regular-sized tub until it is about half-full. Then, ask your Dragon to shift into their 'Human Form' (For more information see page 566). If your Dragon cannot or will not shift, you will have to get creative in your bathing methods. I would suggest using a tear-free kids shampoo, something nice-smelling to please your Dragon's sensitive nose. Peppermint is always a favourite among Northerns, perhaps because it bears a resemblance to the smell a mother Dragon of their species will secrete when their child is distressed. The key to a smooth bathing time for all is to be respectful of your Dragon's boundaries and not push past them. Like Humans, many are prideful and hate the idea of getting any kind of help. Try to be as accommodating as you can, and yet still maintain a sense of control._

John left the Dragon to his own devices for some time, cooking and eating a few strips of bacon as he leaned against the kitchen counter-top, lost in thought. He drummed his fingers against his thighs in a vague beat resembling some pop-sounding show tune he had heard long ago as he stared into space.

He had approximately three weeks until he was going to be shipped to a base along with Mike and hundreds of other soldiers, each accompanying a heavily-scaled weapon disguised as a Servant. It was ridiculous, how people fooled themselves into thinking that their Dragon house-pet was a tame domestic creature instead of a wild animal. Even the military deluded themselves, pretending they were the ones in control of a War they were all losing. John smirked morbidly. It was a wonder; the young man thought privately, that most deaths happened on the battlefield. Why the Dragons didn't just rebel was beyond him, but perhaps it was because they were caught by the illusion as well. They had so long been told that they were beneath Humans, that they were savages, that they had become savage in kind.

He wondered if the government actually trusted their theories to actually resemble real life – not that said theories took into account the fact that they were dealing with living bombs just _waiting _for the worst time to explode.

But then again, he supposed that the government didn't exactly care what happened to the war fodder, as long as they took down a few enemies when they finally blew. There was a time when John trusted the higher powers in charge, but those days had ended for him when he was fairly young. Growing up in a slum district tended to make you see fairly quickly just how honest the government was when they were forced to do their dirty laundry.

In the bathroom, loud splashing noises could be heard. John figured the floor was probably soaking wet by now, as his new Draconian housemate seemed determined to spill half of his bath all over the tiles. He rubbed at his face tiredly and sighed, figuring he'd probably have to apologize to Mrs. Hudson for that. Yet another thing on John's long list of _'things to improve upon so I don't wind up being hated by my neighbours and/or landlady'._

It seemed that list was getting disturbingly longer the more time he spent thinking. To help remedy that issue, John set the kettle to boil. Nothing like a cuppa to stop his thoughts from spiralling out of control. The comforting sound of the water set to bubbling filled the kitchen, partially muffling the commotion going on in the next room over.

It distracted John enough that he didn't think about how he'd have to somehow mix soap into the equation to thoroughly clean the Dragon. Or that eventually, he'd be forced to get close enough to him to treat his wing. There had been so much grime covering the creature's skin that his complexion had been more grey than white, though the fever may have been partly to blame.

Most of all, it distracted John from murmuring the creature's name, letting it roll off of his tongue in curiosity. Like pressing against a new gap in his mouth where a tooth had once been, strange and compelling.

_Sherlock._

The book for all its helpfulness, was strangely silent on how to deal with the tentative fondness that was already developing for the unique burbling noises that purred throughout the house.

He was sure that he had died. That he; Sherlock of all people, had somehow ended up in someone's good graces above. That the Spirits had decided to let him live in the tiny and beautiful universe that was the tile bathroom of _**221 B.**_

(Not that he really believed in such things, though Dragon Gods seemed more sensible to him than the Human's version of a deity.)

That could be the only explanation, because he had never felt so good before in his life. His stomach was halfway filled to bursting (though it still urged him to eat more of that delicious fried meat), he could feel his fever going down, and the freshest welts on his back and legs had long ago gone numb and had begun scabbing over with his speedy healing abilities. He dipped his head underneath the crest of the water again, revelling in the way his tangled curls worked themselves apart before coming back together. When he rose for breath after an eternity of floating just beneath the surface, he inhaled so deeply that his ribs creaked with pressure.

He was so happy that he barely noticed when the water started to turn from translucently clear to muddied and red-brown. The first of many layers of dirt was working itself free from his skin, and it tinged the water an ugly shade somewhere between caked blood and sickly green vomit as he cupped it in his clawed hands in idle speculation. Sherlock noticed that over time, the ice around him started to melt. His wings stretched outwards on either side of him, cramped but not uncomfortable as he scooped the last remaining cubes into his mouth greedily. Their slushy flavour was still tantalizing. Waste not want not, even if they were slightly gritty.

The Dragon was startled when he heard the distinct sound of shuffling from outside the open bathroom door, and his eyes slit as he curled himself into the furthest corner of the tub and let loose a warning, guttural growl. The noise reverberated off the bathroom walls like the rumbling of an earthquake, and John froze just on the threshold of the door. He loudly cleared his throat, summoning up his courage to continue forward.

Though he had been known back at home for being extremely skilled at going places unheard and unseen, he had forgotten how sensitive a Dragon's hearing could be. Keeping his voice low and calm, he decided to go with the choice game again, where he gave Sherlock two options. It seemed the creature responded better when given choices or when orders were phrased as requests. At the very least it unbalanced him enough that he didn't turn into a shredding machine with the sole purpose of killing one John Watson.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he stepped into full view of he doorway, holding a plastic bottle of shampoo and some more strips of bacon on a plate. He was determined not to tremble as he clicked his jaw, standing soldier-straight, but not imposingly so. Still Sherlock reared backwards, nearly slipping before righting himself properly.

For a creature that looked like it should be effortlessly graceful, John found the Dragon could be terribly clumsy at times, not unlike a colt still trying to get control of its overly long limbs. The thought made him have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

"It's all right, easy. I'm not going to come in I promise. This space is yours right now, though not permanently!"

He added the last part as an afterthought, as Sherlock's eyes flicked towards the walls almost eagerly as if he might like to Mark them. The Dragon snorted under his breath at the panicked look on the young man's face, having not considered claiming the space too seriously.

"We'll...we'll have to share this space, though not at the same time." John mistook the dark look that had flashed in Sherlock's eyes for jealousy of territory, and rushed to reassure him. It was strange, but he felt he was already getting better at reading the moody creature's emotional swings. It was like following a slightly off-kilter compass. John was growing determined to ensure that the metaphorical ship sailed safely into harbour without further storms.

"You have a choice. You can use the shampoo to scrub the dirt out of your hair by yourself... or if you want I can help you... If I help you though there will be no complaining or biting or _spitting_ frost at me... and you'll get more bacon for your patience..."

He held up the plate invitingly, hoping that he wasn't being too forced or forward. He needed Sherlock to get used to having his personal space invaded, at least so John could get a proper look at that infection. Short time meant he had to push, but he didn't want to break any tentative agreement they had already come to. If he accidentally shattered the Dragon's already fragile truce with him, then John was absolutely certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would not get another chance. The cool distrust in Sherlock's eyes as he swept his gaze over him made John shiver, feeling as though he was being pierced straight to his bones.

Sherlock wasn't a stupid Hatchling. He knew when asking was really just polite demanding. Yet strangely, he found he didn't find this 'Jawn' quite so irritating as he gave him the supposed 'options' to pick from. On the one hand, the Dragon absolutely despised physical contact. It made his skin crawl, bad memories resurfacing and leaving it difficult for him to regain his composure when he closed his eyes and pictured the past. Yet he also knew he had no idea how to drain or refill the tub, as the mechanics were quite lost on him since he had never seen a faucet before this closely. He was sure he could figure it out, but it would probably require a fair bit of time and splashing, and he wasn't sure just how patient this Human was. It was quite possible that if he took too long he would be beaten, and though that soft face didn't seem like the type for unnecessary cruelty, there was a firmness in 'Jawn' that was hidden under his caretaker veil. Sherlock was not yet sure what kind of steel it was, but if it turned out to be the volatile type...

Well, he'd be on guard.

Weighing the options heavily in his mind, the Dragon then took into account the promise of more food. If Sherlock had known John better, he would have spotted the clever bluff in an instant. John had no intention of letting the creature starve, but he counted on Sherlock's distrust of him in this case, as it made it easier to lie. It was perhaps underhanded, but the soldier couldn't quite bring himself to guilty as he saw the Dragon's eyes narrow in hesitant acceptance.

The fact was, Sherlock's stomach was almost pulling itself into knots just staring at the promising plate. He had the ghost of the flavour still on his lips, and like a particularly potent poison, one taste wasn't enough. He wanted more, and the Dragon realized that perhaps he has been played into a rather genius catch twenty-two. Sherlock peered more closely at the unassuming Human before him, wondering if perhaps he was staring at some kind of strange genius underneath the rather ugly oatmeal jumper in which the soldier was clad.

There had to be a price for this kindness.

He just hadn't figured it out yet.

There must be _something_ this Human wanted, and as Sherlock tried to analyse the answer, he found a frustratingly blank wall. The soldier showed no desire for anything except being able to approach him, and Sherlock didn't _understand._

There was a give and take in everything. Pain cancelled out pleasure. Pleasure muffled pain. Food was traded for hunger, and hunger called for nutrition in kind. Whips were the exchange for defiance, and rebellion was rewarded with blood.

Life was cancelled out by death.

Trust only came with trust in kind, and Sherlock definitely did not trust John Watson.

There was no exchange to be had, because they had no contract. He was a crack in the Human's otherwise complete life, and he was rapidly spider-webbing himself outwards, determined to bring John Watson's castle tumbling down. And the soldier should be retaliating, should be fighting back.

He should be giving Sherlock more angry energy to justify his bitterness, his defiance.

So why was he being trusted to not hurt him?

Why would a soldier _willingly_ risk bringing bodily harm to himself just to care for the likes of him?

It made no sense.

John could feel the Dragon was retreating back into his calculated stare again, the sensation prickling the hair on the back of his neck. He refused to lower his gaze from those cold irises, and he smiled nervously.

He could've sworn the Dragon actually_ rolled his eyes_ in response.

_Nope._

Sherlock thought.

_He's an idiot after all. My mistake._

Still, a more interesting idiot than usual, considering Sherlock had only felt the urge to eat him once so far.

Reluctantly, he uncurled himself from the corner of the tub with a small hiss of contempt, keeping up the act even though his shoulder slumped it defeat. The shit-eating grin that the Human had plastered on his face at his reaction was positively _hateful_ as Sherlock glared at his hands wrapped tightly about his knees. He hated himself in that moment for being such a sell-out. Hated his own weakness. Hated Humans more than anything on the face of the planet. Hated how his tongue licked his lower lip rebelliously in hunger more than anything.

However when the plate of bacon was placed on the floor beside the tub with a small _clink_, he still reached for it. The greasy food distracted him from his inner repulsion as John carefully stepped forward, leaning forward to pull the plug. He wanted to drain the water and draw another bath, so that they would have a clean start. He watched as Sherlock's eyes widened and fixated on his hand, the creature's breath hitching and coming faster as the soldier's fingers almost brushed his feet. John felt a small pang of pity for the creature, but shook it off with the mechanical noise of water flushing down the drain. When Sherlock's eyes pulled themselves back towards his face, the soldier's features were composed. Friendly, but not overly so.

The perfect mask of smooth invitation without giving any kind of weakness away.

Only when the tub was completely empty of grime did John turn back on the cold water, the thundering of the water hitting porcelain making the Dragon jump and cringe violently in response. The soldier found himself awkwardly shuffling around one massive wing that was tinged nervous green, ducking from its flare as Sherlock instinctively tried to protect himself from the loud noise by flaring his wings outwards like a shield. The Dragon turned when John made a sound of distress, nearly getting clipped in the head by the scaly appendage. Sherlock was almost tempted to knock the man out, but when he caught a glimpse of John's face the thought died. The young man was grinning, staring at his leathery wing with a shadow of the awe that the creature had seen back in the Kennels. Sherlock found somewhat distressingly as he reached for another piece of bacon that if he wasn't careful, he just might get used to such an expression being gifted to him on a regular basis.

For a moment, both men were locked in their own private bubbles. Frozen inches away from each other as the soldier positioned himself just in the corner of Sherlock's peripheral vision and waited patiently for some kind of invitation. Polite, this Human was. Oddly so.

It was strangely soothing, the look John fixed him with. Like a heated match, hovering just far enough away to warm and not burn. The Dragon found himself torn between two instincts, fear and longing. How long had it been since he was touched in a way that was not meant to harm or subdue him? When had someone last offered to care for him, and expect nothing in return?

It was a dream.

Too good to be true, which meant it must be a lie.

And yet when John finally reached out with a hesitant hand to touch crest of Sherlock's curls, he shuddered. Because the rough pads of the soldier's hands made him want to simultaneously pull away with their lying tenderness and lean closer towards their touch. He trembled, pressing his face against his bent knees as he breathed slowly and allowed himself to shift to his fully Human form, letting the soldier past the final physical wall. John blinked in surprise as Sherlock's wings suddenly folded and _disappeared _in front of him, leaving only the infection spreading across his skin. The patches of scales slowly faded away, and the long sinuous tail that had been curling protectively about the Dragon's figure vanished. He could now lean over the tub without any difficulty whatsoever, and he lightly stroked the place on Sherlock's scalp where one of his darkly curling horns had been peeking out but a moment before. All he felt was slightly ridged scalp, the same as his own.

Both of them were surprised when John whispered a hushed "Thank you." under his breath. And though Sherlock's brain was screaming at him to tear, to bite into that solid hand upon his head, he forced himself to still. Because he realized somehow, that the soldier behind him could see what he was sacrificing to allow him this small form of contact, and what Sherlock both craved and loathed in his touch.

Somehow, John Watson had become a double-edged blade that the Dragon now had to balance on a sharp precipice. On one side, a strange trust that was beginning to work itself reluctantly into his chest like the rhythmic lathering of soap into his curls. On the other, a tumbling pit that would lead to both of their demises.

John had been right at the Kennels. Sherlock's hair when it was scrubbed free of dirt and debris, shone like dark obsidian under the bathroom lights. The locks were also quite long when they were no longer sticking together from blood and sickness, coming to rest messily at the nape of Sherlock's neck. They were almost touching his shoulders in thick waves. As John ran his fingers through them lightly in satisfaction, he found that they glided over his hands with the promise of being baby-soft when dry. They were a stark contrast to the milky colour of the creature's skin.

Now that Sherlock had given up hiding himself behind the massive protection of his wings, John was surprised to note that his Human form was actually quite tall and rather gangly. The thin side of slender. Though John wasn't exactly a giant himself, Sherlock's legs were _impossibly_ long, and they were a mass of disjointed angles as he crouched in the tub like a gargoyle. His toes twitched restlessly under the cold water, and those pale blue eyes moved with the pent-up energy of a man half-wild and uncertain. They crackled with the kind of intensity that could strip the bark from even the staunchest oak, and the scapulae of his back rolled slightly with tension under the soldier's steady gaze. John could now see with the absence of all the grime deep scars lacing all down the Dragon's arms and spine, crossing each other like lace ribbons spiralling down a canvas. The infection still bled sluggishly, but now that it had been cleaned it seemed a lot less severe that it had first appeared at a glance. That was relieving, as John dreaded to think what might have happened if it had been too serious. All Dragons in the military needed their wings, flying was an essential part of training. If Sherlock had been handicapped, then no amount of patience would have changed his fate. In fact compared to the brutally honest bruises and scars, it looked almost tame in terms of damage. He was surprised when an impossibly pale arm reached out to stop his hands as they hovered over the marks of abuse in a kind of morbid fascination, Sherlock's grip icy and wet and as solid as steel. Though the Dragon's eyes were downcast towards his knees, the message was clear.

_That was not part of the choice. Don't touch me._

Sherlock; half afraid that John would strike him for being so forward, tensed for battle with baited breath. Though his body was rigid and his presence commanding in an order, it was more of a desperate plea. In truth, the Dragon was vitally aware of how vulnerable he was at the moment, naked and broken and exposed. He felt fragile like this, with no claws or horns or armour to protect the soft skin beneath. It was like a babe being offered up to a lion, though he knew the Human wouldn't see it that way. There was nothing shielding him from those hands, whether they chose to hit or to heal. His teeth could only do so much damage before John would be able to call for help or possibly subdue him. Though he was stronger, the soldier had the vast advantage. With the collar, he'd be unable to deny the man anything if he decided to use force.

Servitude.

Sex.

A personal punching bag if it suited him.

Sherlock had witnessed and experienced all three.

A piece of leather, so simple and yet the chip inside it held a frightening amount of power. How long until John Watson shed his sheep-like disguise and became one of the monsters? How long until all of this insane dream came crashing down around his ears? This, this was so _dangerous_. His nerves screamed for him to act, and he didn't know how. Every possible outcome ended badly. And yet, he knew he had chosen this. Chosen to prolong the illusion that maybe, just maybe, he and this Human could coexist. He wanted to kick himself for not eating John the second he had been set free. At least then death would have been imminent, none of this slow torture of uncertainty. This Human was just so _gentle_, but that could not be mistaken for _caring_.

A feeling of panic began to well inside Sherlock's chest, and he felt as though he was already entertaining the idea of an early-set in Stockholm Syndrome. He had seen other Dragons with it before, who mistook a lack of beatings for kindness in their Masters. They'd follow their Humans around with mooning eyes and happy smiles, all the while ignoring the leashes connected to their throats. He scowled bitterly at the thought, nails biting crescents into his palms as he finally released John's arm and allowed the soldier to rinse the last dredges of soap from his hair.

John was done for no more than a second when the Dragon lunged out of the tub, shaking himself like a dog and sending water droplets all over the tile floor. It was a graceful and yet carnal move, and even though his ribs stuck out starkly John could see from the glimpse of his backside that Sherlock would soon regain his strength if all went well. The black mark on his back still worried him, but the Dragon was no longer stumbling in his movements as he crouched to pick up the now empty plate that had once held bacon and place it in the bathroom sink. The wrong place for it, but John wasn't about to argue as he was currently stuck marvelling at the level of improvement a cleaning did to the creature's overall appearance. Dripping wet curls hung over his blue-green eyes as they flicked about the bathroom once, contrasting starkly with high cheekbones that jutted sharply over cupid's- bow lips. Under the exposing light, the scars were obviously whip-marks, and they were coupled with shiny burns that looked both new and old. However they were soon hidden again as the wings reappeared, unfolding themselves to wrap around the thin man's shoulders protectively. Like a cape, they made Sherlock feel as if he wasn't so obviously vulnerable, so weak. His legs shook like a newborn gazelle's as he walked forward, but they held him as he stood ramrod straight. His horns sprouted from the crest of his head, and his scales glowed a defensive burnt orange like the end of a cigarette as the Dragon turned. He made as if to flee back down the stairs to_**221 C.**_

He was a picture of beauty and deadly force. John had never used the word beautiful to describe a man before, but in his somewhat dazed state of mind that was the only adjective that could fit the image before him. In the silhouette of the bathroom light, those pale eyes were nearly clear, staring at a spot in the wall with a lost, wandering kind of gaze. There was a quiet loneliness, and a terrible fear hidden in the ice of that look. It was a brokenness that made the soldier think that Sherlock never intended for the likes of him to see.

Before the Dragon-man could leave, John's voice called softly after him. The Human's tone was clear and bright in the silence, yet it weighed heavily in Sherlock's chest. It was filled with a strange kind of wistfulness that he wasn't sure how to react to.

"I have scars too. It's... I don't mind them."

John stared at his hands as he said this, keeping his voice quiet and reflective. Like he was being introspective.

The knitted jumper he wore hid all of the scars that had been left behind by other hands, however he wasn't sure he was talking about the physical wounds. There was a haunted look in the creature's pale eyes, like he was struggling against visions and spectres that weren't actually there. John knew that feeling, the sensation of drowning in overwhelming past events. The paranoia it could instil could leave a man trembling, pressing his palm to his lips to keep from sobbing physically. He wasn't sure if Dragons felt pain in the same way that people did, but the soldier recognized suffering when he saw it. Fragility.

He knew it because it lingered under his own skin, under layer after layer of stoicism that came with having no other option but to stand and take the world as it came. It was survive or starve, and the Dragon knew it too.

He could tell by the way Sherlock glared at him as if offended by the gentle support.

The Dragon turned and regarded the young man speculatively for a long time with narrowed, cool eyes. John nearly jumped when he heard the rumbling murmur inside of his head, rolling like a storm coming off from the sea.

_**Afghanistan or Iraq?**_

"Um...Sorry, what?"

The soldier asked, mystified at the seemingly cryptic question. He was positive that this time the Dragon _did_ roll his eyes, and a stream of fog hissed out from between his clenched teeth in impatience. Though he was stark naked and dripping and should have looked rather silly all things considered, he somehow managed to appear at once graceful and pretentious in a single well-placed glare.

_**Where are they sending us? If we're going to be slaughtered, I'd like to know which desert I'm to bleed out in.**_

"Afghanistan... but..."

He wanted to ask why Sherlock seemed to hold the opinion that they were going to die, and also question how he could seem so unconcerned about the whole affair. But the Dragon was already sashaying his way out the door, not a scrap of clothing protecting his modesty as he flounced out into the hall.

It was not trust. Not even close.

Neither John nor Sherlock deluded themselves into thinking so.

But it was something, and both of them shivered as they felt the others' presence like a fire just running underneath their skin. Not burning, but _warming_.

Both of them privately hoped that somehow they would manage to get by unburned.


	7. Pet

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Hoarding Instinct (Condition): **_Though it has been established by now that Dragons do not "hoard" treasure in the classic way from many popular fairy-tales, there are certain situations in which a Dragon might be tempted to go into what is called a "Hoarding Instinct" (See more details in how to prevent this on page 684). One example would be if a Dragon is in "Mating Season" (See page 333 section C for details) or when said Dragon is under an extreme amount of stress. The "Hoarding Instinct" is an extreme defensive mechanism, derived from childhood nesting urges. Dragons when they feel deeply threatened will be likely to make small nests about their territory, but in extreme situations will often devolve into a "Hoarding" state of mind. The Dragon will use any objects they may have a preference towards, not just treasures humans would generally deem "valuable". The best thing to do while a Dragon is in "Hoard" mode is to just wait it out until the Dragon feels secure enough to leave the nest by themselves or invite the person in (See page 284 for more details). Under any circumstances, __DO NOT __ try to force a Dragon out of "Hoarding Mode". It is both dangerous for the Dragon, and for yourself. And angry Dragon is a lethal one._

Sherlock dreamed of fire. Fire that was so bright, it burned brilliant scarlet and turned the sky a deep magenta pink. It was beautiful, terrible and all-consuming as it ate the mountain before his very eyes. He could feel his breath stolen away by the heat of it, his childlike body threatening to topple over under the force of its molten rage. He crouched in the fast-melting snow, dark curls becoming ashen by the drifting pieces that rained down like little flakes of dead skin. When he inhaled, he could taste their flavour. Gritty and bitter.

He coughed, then cried out again. What he said was something in his own tongue, but it was blurred and twisted to the fading of time. He screamed it again and again, until he was sure his throat was raw. Then he shifted into his true form, screaming into the frigid night air that turned to dawn with the blazing fire.

He couldn't move.

He didn't know why, but perhaps that was the nature of the nightmare. Trapping its owner in the fells of their own subconscious mind, feeding on their fears and darkest torments. And wasn't that what fire was to a creature who was made of ice? The ultimate mind-numbing terror. It was enough to make a grown Dragon become crippled in fear.

The flames were getting closer, and he wanted to shrink away from them. They burned, blistered his skin even though they didn't even touch. It was so hot that Sherlock thought if he dared to open his eyes he'd go blind. He was so afraid, so small, and he could not claw his way back to reality. The disorientation of panic kicked in, and in desperation he screeched one last time a name to the sky. Calling for someone, someone that Sherlock could not recall, and could not hope to know for they were buried deep in the depths of his mind.

A flash of shining, silver scales.

A mighty roar.

Then Sherlock woke, jerking awake with a snarl already on his lips before he took in the rapidly-becoming recognizable peeling wallpaper of 221 C. Slowly, he took in the fact that he had slept for nearly a full day and a half, the morning sun probably just beginning to rise if his internal clock was correct. Much too long; he could usually manage to go without sleep for nearly a week before he collapsed. The bath had made him stupidly complacent. Unsure of how long John expected him to rest for, he came to wonder as always if he would finally be beaten for one of his transgressions. Nervously, he licked his lips and listened half-fearfully for the crack of a whip or an angry voice. Instead, he was surprised to hear a sound that was at once recognizable and yet alien to him, drifting softly down from the floor above him with a gentle caress. It had probably been the thing that had woken him up in the first place.

Music.

There was music playing from 221 B, elegantly twirling down the steps to reach Sherlock's awestruck ears.

He could scarcely believe it, the sound so achingly fragile when compared to the noises he was used to. It felt like an illusion, something that would soon be shattered by a hoarse scream or the snapping of bones, by the sound of brothers and sisters taking their final breaths and by the rattling of cages trembling in the dark. Except he wasn't in the Kennels anymore.

No, he was in someplace much stranger.

And in some ways, more dangerous.

His sharply pointed teeth shone for a moment before he allowed himself to shrink into his half-Human form, straightening tentatively as his shoulder wound throbbed once as if to remind him of its existence.

There were no ice cubes at the threshold this time, but instead the Dragon found himself being lead creepingly up the stairs inch by inch by the strangely hypnotic melody drifting down to him, just loudly enough for his sensitive hearing to pick out the notes. It was a pure instrument, whatever was playing in the piece, and he found himself burbling softly to the general tone of the music even though he didn't know its name. The notes were sad and soft, melting into complexity as time wore on and the piece rose in power and strength. As he took the steps one at a time, Sherlock found himself swaying slightly to the rhythm in interest. It was a beautiful noise, whatever instruments they were that were making them. He didn't know, but he thought it might be something with strings. He had once had a Master that could play guitar. She hadn't been half bad, a country singer with a rich sort of rasping voice that had sounded always just slightly off-key but consistently so. Though Sherlock's opinion of musical instruments, and music in general for that matter, greatly diminished when she had used said guitar once to strike him across the face in a drunken rage after he refused to be her packhorse and carry her music supplies. He hadn't been ashamed in the slightest when he had eaten the absurdly tough-tasting instrument the next day, splitting it in half over is knee before tearing into it, strings and all. Listening to her screams of horror had been worth the stomach-ache afterwards.

The door to 221 B was, as it had been the day before, opened wide for him. A warm glow emanated from the room temptingly, though the Dragon remained in shadow a moment longer to scout for signs of a trap. There were none, except the obvious of course being the fact that he could literally be attacked at any moment by the Human.

John's voice spoke from the living room, startling him from his thoughts.

"You know, you don't have to ask permission to come in. I know it's your custom and all, but really, this place is meant for you too."

Sherlock snorted indignantly, blowing fog out in a cloud around him before silently gathering his courage to flounce inside as menacingly as he could manage. Given the fact that he was as unsure of himself as a baby cow being thrown into a pack of wolves, he felt he did a fairly impressive job.

The Human smiled at him in an infuriatingly not-scared-for-his-life kind of way, closing a large tome that the Dragon had seen him reading the other day and bookmarking his place with his thumb.

John blinked as Sherlock came waltzing in, a little surprised and pleased at the Dragon's confidence even though it was twisted by his glowering snarl. In the light of early morning, the creature's lithe figure appeared just a little bit healthier than it had before. His cheeks had just a little bit more colour in them, and instead of looking feverish and dazed those blue-green eyes were sharp and cutting as they flicked about the room. The young soldier could tell by the Dragon's stance that Sherlock was on guard, but not actively prepared to attack. Cautious curiosity, lingering like a simmering blaze just under a smooth pane of ice. His head was tilted slightly as he listened in rapt attention to the music playing in the flat, the CD player Harry had given John for his sixteenth birthday finally coming in handy. The creature's scales were a swirling, undecided colour, caught between transition from one emotion into another. He froze immediately every time John shifted in his chair even the slightest. John tried not to flinch when that thundering voice rumbled in his head. A simple, questioning sentence.

_**...Music?**_

"Beethoven. Moonlight Sonata. Only have the violin version, not the original...sorry..." John answered promptly, shoulders straightening with being directly addressed for the first time since he had brought Sherlock to his flat. He found himself answering the question with its unspoken requests, unsure of how much information the Dragon really wanted. His military training urged him to give everything in pointed, clipped form. To get the facts out straight before the embellishments.

"I got it from a... friend." He was hesitant to admit that Harry had given it to him once as a prank birthday gift, when he has asked her for a 'killer CD' for his seventeenth. "Not really my taste but I thought it might... bring a little bit of cheer to the flat."

At around seven in the morning. Smooth lie John, really. Good job.

He winced at his inability with words, struggling to keep a conversation afloat with those pale blue eyes assessing him with startling clarity. In truth, he had picked the CD in the hopes that it would appeal to the Dragon's calmer side, keeping him from becoming quite so anxious every time he stepped into the flat. John had reflected on it for most of the evening yesterday, worrying that it might instead antagonize the creature and make him more volatile than ever. After all, how was he to know if the Dragon would enjoy his taste in music? It's not like he could just casually ask _'Hey, how do you feel about Bob Marley? I'm feeling like some reggae at the moment personally'_. At first he had considered some of his favourite rock albums (ACDC, The Who, he even had a couple of songs from My Chemical Romance) but then decided against it as he felt the creature would probably find the ripping guitar solos grating and somewhat offensive. Then, he had considered just turning on the radio to one of the trashier pop stations, but quickly discarded the idea with distaste. Mostly because if John felt like he needed to punch someone after he spent an hour being forced to listen to crappily autotuned show divas (Harry had a thing for blasting her radio at all hours of the night when she had still been living at home) then he imagined that Sherlock would very well eat him out of spite.

In the end, classical had been more of a default option to fall back on, but it seemed he struck lucky. John could see even though the Dragon was by no means relaxed about him, that some of the all-consuming tension that had wired his every move the night before had gone slack. Half-crouched on the floor, Sherlock's tail swished lightly to the tune, his mind imagining deft fingers plucking away at instruments he had only ever dreamed before of hearing.

The Dragon's gaze swept over John with minute speculation, noting that the Human before him showed tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation and stress. His pupils were dilated from drinking too many caffeinated cups of tea, and dark circles hung under his eyes. The blue-striped jumper he wore wasn't quite as tacky as the beige one he had worn the other day, but it made him seem younger somehow. Sherlock found he was looking at not so much a soldier, but something between a man and a boy. His blonde hair was slightly ruffled, making look not unlike duck feathers sticking out in every direction in golden tufts. Though short, it was just long enough that the Dragon had the inexplicable urge to run his hands through it, if only to test to see if hair could really be as soft as it looked. Quickly though he did away with that thought, mentally kicking himself even as his nostrils flared to take in the smells of the flat around him.

He took in the familiar scent of tea and earthiness, a trademark of John that Sherlock found himself rapidly starting to associate with 'safety' (Much to his annoyance). It was the strongest flavour that rolled off of his tongue, but now that he had a better chance to analyze, he could tell right away it wasn't the only one. Under the predominant scent of the Human, other smells lingered like accompanying flowers to a bouquet, surrounding the centre that was John. Strings of sandalwood cleaner and violet perfume (girlfriend? No, not the scent of a young woman) mingled and wound around the sharp scent of gun oil and boot polish, probably from up the stairs where John's bedroom door stood open. With it there was the muted smell of bacon from the other day, followed by a newer scent that was equally delicious but that Sherlock didn't recognize.

He inhaled more deeply, brow furrowing in concentration as he tried to pinpoint the aroma that drifted past his nostrils. Not meat, it lacked that certain greasy and savoury texture. Yet it wasn't something bland either, like the watery gruel he had been given at the Kennels when they hadn't been able to afford the more expensive shipments. It was sweet, almost sickeningly so, and had a dark timbre with it that spoke of decadence. His mouth watered as he unwillingly imagined what it could be, the possibilities making him painfully hungry once again in an instant even though as of late he had eaten more than he had ever before. A small, desperate whine of frustration at his own weakness slipped from his lips before he could stop it.

John mistook it for longing, but then again, that's exactly what it was. Even if Sherlock was loathe to admit it.

"Mrs. Hudson dropped by last night after you had gone. Apparently, she had been making a German chocolate cake for her friends at the bingo hall and just happened to make a small extra layer by accident." John winked, chuckling to himself at the joke he made even as Sherlock mentally took into account the presence of an elderly Human who liked to bake (Explained the other scent, perfume most likely worn because she is visiting a 'gentleman friend' at the bingo hall.). However, his thoughts came up short when he realized that he had no idea what a German chocolate cake actually was or what it tasted like.

Vaguely, he felt almost certain it was something edible (because anything that smelled like that had to be edible surely) but beyond that he was quite at a loss as to imagine what it could look like. Seeming to sense his confusion if not the cause of it, John stood slowly, shuffling over to the kitchen area to rifle around with something that made a large clattering noise (Sherlock would later find out it as a clear glass cloche that covered the dessert) before coming back out with what looked to be a pastry made from heaven itself balanced in one hand. Sherlock's eyes went from slits to saucers as wide as dinner plates in shock.

The "little" layer of cake was topped with what smelled like rich vanilla icing, swirling in wave-like patterns to meet bright red strawberries glistening on top. It was the biggest dessert Sherlock had ever laid eyes on before let alone eaten, and its smell was positively sumptuous from five feet away where he was standing. He must have not looked quite as distant as he had wanted to, because John grinned like he had just won some kind of prize as he knelt and placed the dish upon the floor, pushing it across the tile until it rested at Sherlock's feet. All of a sudden, the Dragon realized just how strange this entire situation was. Someone treating him like he was something to be cared for, someone to ask about. Someone worth feeding, despite the fact he hadn't earned his keep in the slightest. It was like everything in his universe that had made sense had been turned on its ear, like a glass kettle smashed to pieces against a brick wall. And he couldn't reconcile it in his head, not without feeling his skin itch and his eyes burn strangely as he looked at the cake before him, given to him without a second thought.

How many other Dragons lived day-to-day, never having enough to eat? He had been one of them until only a few nights ago, and he knew. Knew what starvation felt like, the sensation of your own stomach trying to eat away at your organs, desperate for satiation. How it could wake you from even the deepest slumber, make you cry out and squirm as you tried to find something to alleviate the pain of your gut twisting itself into knots. Yet here this Human was, feeding him deliciously extravagant things like sweets and bacon, and he wasn't even thinking slightly about anyone else. Sherlock's eyes closed. He wasn't used to guilt, shame and humiliation yes, but guilt caught him off guard and made him want to sway where he stood. _What made him different from those others, trapped still in their Kennels?_ He should have been the least likely to end up here, warm and safe and being looked upon with something akin to kindness. He didn't deserve it. Didn't even want it. What made him different from the other wretches, chained to their cages by collars and unable to break free, shocking devices driving them to their places in their cells?

_You've been picked as a pet, that's the only difference._

His mind mercilessly supplied.

_There's a trade after all, and you've just found it. You've traded what little freedom you had to be coddled, and you didn't even realize you did it until it was too late._

It settled on him like a weight, and when his eyes snapped open, he was propelled into a hyper-awareness that came only from coming completely undone, unable to deal with such a sudden shift in position. He was no longer a prisoner, he was an owned pet.

He was fed because he was owned by someone.

He was someone's Servant.

He was little more than an animal after all.

That was when his mind went blank. Defenseless against the overwhelming feeling of panic.

The compulsion was sudden and gut wrenching, leaving Sherlock almost light-headed. In an instant, everything vanished from his mind but one single thought:

_Protect._

The Dragon immediately lunged upon the dessert viciously, swiping the plate so that the cake was jealously guarded by the great expanse of his wings and tail, tucked against his chest.

John blinked as Sherlock coiled over the cake like he was guarding a precious treasure, scales flashing a protective gold like the colour of sun-blasted sand. The rumbling edges of a low growl of approval bubbled from the creature's chest, sounding like the revving of a pickup truck with the close proximity between them. The soldier had to clamp down on the familiar beginnings of fear prickling along his spine, telling himself firmly that Sherlock was not actively being a threat. He was just defending what he perceived as his, nothing more. There was nothing to be scared of so long as he didn't try and take his cake from him. Like a crooked spinning tea cup, he struggled to keep his thoughts from whirling out into the realm of dead panic when Sherlock's lips peeled back to bare inhumanely pointed teeth.

The Dragon wasn't entirely sure what brought on his bout of protective instincts, perhaps the cross between suddenly having anything he desired to eat and his suspicions that somehow, all of this would end horribly. That somehow, he'd wake up to find this all to be a vivid hallucination or dream. Either way, he knew he was truly pushing his luck, daring to actually growl at a Human inside his own territory. A small, scientific part of his brain wondered vaguely if this would be it. If John would finally break his calm facade of caretaker and finally don the mantle of a Master. Surely now would be the moment, when for all intents and purposes the Dragon gave off the aura of a beast ready to strike? As it was, even he wasn't sure if he was going to attack or retreat. Possibly because he didn't know what had set him off in the first place. Like an abrupt wave of change, he found his heart pounding anxiously inside the cage of his sternum, and his eyes narrowed into defensive slits. He could feel his Dragon form aching to shift, to lose the vulnerable soft skin of Human flesh and to become invincible and hard as steel. It was drowning him, the sense of panic, and Sherlock thought it might drag him down so that his intelligence would sleep and the primal side of him would lunge into control. He reigned it in sharply, blinking away the red tinge that everything had taken on to find John's voice right by his ear. The Human was muttering things, meaningless words that had no purpose whatsoever, yet Sherlock latched onto the steady drone to ground himself, the music of the soldier's masculine voice as soft and calming as sunlight cutting through smoke. As if he was kicking desperately against the current of a powerful waterfall, the Dragon forced himself out of his instinctive pull, making his mind resurface into logic so he could float above the waves that screamed MINE! Without sanity or reason.

John watched as Sherlock's blazing blue eyes stared at him with a manic, feral gleam. The creature's wings flashed panicked red like a traffic light, coalescing into an anxious seasick-green as the Dragon recoiled away from John's touch like he had lice. This in itself was not a new occurrence, but the resounding snarl that left Sherlock's lips as he glared hatefully up at the soldier made John pause, regarding the Dragon before him cautiously. The sound, ragged and laced with true panic, was different from the blustering roars Sherlock had used in interactions before. This one was somehow tinged with a raw emotion that struck the soldier and made him freeze in his movements. Gone was the somewhat childlike man that John had caught a glimpse of the other day, and back were the pointed teeth and slitted blue eyes. Sherlock's tail was whip-like as it lashed possessively, his figure curled around the simple piece of cake like it was some kind of treasure. With his wings raised defensively and his ebony horns glinting under the kitchen light, the Dragon looked suddenly like the classic depiction of the monsters of John's childhood. Creatures that ruled mountains and shadowy caves, spitting fire and ice on villages to protect what was theirs. The longer he stared, the more he felt a prickling sensation crawl along his neck. The sense of recognition of a term he had read about somewhere at some point...

Treasure... Oh. _**Oh!**_

Eyes wide, John took a second look at the Dragon, pieces clicking together like the mechanics of a clock meshing into one machine to allow the slow ticking of realization. Slowly, he backed away from Sherlock, keeping his hands up in an air of surrender even as he muttered under his breath soothing words.

"There, there. It's okay. You're safe, I promise. _Shh_. That's enough growling now _shhh_..."

Making sure he was still facing the creature, the soldier walked backwards until he entered the kitchen, searching for the jade-green tome sitting peacefully on the marble counter. Scooping it into his hands, he was just about to leaf through it quickly to the chapter that was nagging at him when a sharp sound pierced the air. The cry of a telephone ringing throughout the flat was answered by a shrieking roar from Sherlock, and John dove for the phone in the corner of the kitchen before the Dragon could work himself into more of a frenzy than he already had. Ears still ringing from the echoing vibrations of the creature's howl, the soldier winced as he cradled the receiver by his ear.

"Hello?"

Mike's distressed voice crackled from the other end of the line, muffled by a background clatter that sounded like every single expensively breakable thing the man owned (Which admittedly probably wasn't much) was being smashed into pieces.

"John! You have to help me!" His friend moaned, sounding panicked and utterly knackered even from the separation of a telephone line. "I did everything I was told to do, I mean it was written all down in the pamphlet but-"

John flinched when something shattered right next to his ear, sending tinkling, bell-like vibrations over Mike's voice. His friend was practically sobbing on the other line.

"You've got to help me! Please mate! I don't have the heart to use the collar and-"

More smashing, followed by the crackling of smoke threatening to turn to flame. Apparently, Mike's Molly had been pushed to her limit. His friend shouted into the phone, sounding thoroughly lost and not knowing where to go. His tone was defeated, crushed and hopeless like a coffee cup trodden on underfoot.

"Please John. I don't know what to do. At this rate, I'm about ready to do something I really don't want to do. She's going to eat me, or worse if I don't figure out what set her off! "

For a moment, John debated with himself. On the one hand, he knew exactly what his friend was implying. He'd take his Dragon back to the Kennels, or finally gather up the courage to use force in discipline. Neither of them were vouchers for violence, Mike being too gentle and John having had experience on the receiving end of that kind of treatment. The soldier knew that if his friend went there, a part of Stamford might possibly break, not to mention what mental state his poor Dragon would be put in because of it. Yet on the other hand, John couldn't put off the feeling that Sherlock needed him right now. His own Dragon was clearly upset and he didn't know how, or why it had happened. Leaving him now didn't seem like a good idea, especially because chances were he wouldn't be able to coerce Sherlock back to 221 C.

Anything could happen, the least of which being his Dragon could very well decide just to lay waste to his flat. He could accidentally hurt himself on something sharp, hurt someone else (it was still up to debate if it would be on purpose or by accident) if they decided to walk in, or he could even wind up causing such a racket that another tenant could complain. Teetering between feeding his friend to the wolves and possibly feeding Sherlock to them, John wavered. Looking at the book lying heavy before him, the soldier felt as if the green leather cover sat accusing him. Its golden-coloured pages promised solutions not just for him, but for so many others. He was quickly realizing that up until now, he hadn't thought outside the realm of his own problems, facing the terrifying challenge of raising a Red-Card Dragon from savagery into some semblance of civilized intelligence.

He guiltily admitted to himself that he hadn't bothered to think of his friend at all in the past couple of days, too wrapped up with Sherlock. In fact, he hadn't left the house once since the Dragon had arrived, and he was truthfully beginning to go just slightly stir-crazy. He had caught himself tapping his fingers nervously against the counter, a habit that only came forth when he had energy that was not being spent and not enough to do. Also, he was starting to run dangerously low on groceries. The bread was gone, and he had used the last of the milk this morning in his breakfast cereal and tea. Soon, he'd be forced to drink the horrid fruit tea Mrs. Hudson had given him as a welcoming present (not that the sweet old woman didn't have the best interests at heart) and John knew he would sooner eat his favourite jumper.

Horrid stuff, fruit tea.

Like hot squash and sour wine mixed together. He shuddered in distaste.

Looking down at the book, he sighed in defeat and rubbed his hands over his face in exhaustion. His thoughts bit at him like vipers.

_You were given this wonderful gift, knowledge no one has seen before on creatures that people have feared for decades even while ruling over them. Are you really going to hoard it all, just like those Dragons in your fairy-tales that you read as a kid?_

He knew he was beat. Slumping in resignation, John blew an explosive breath out from his clenched teeth and cradled the phone, voice laced with the flat certainty that none of this was going to end well.

"Can you give me a half hour? I'll be at your flat as soon as I can."

Mike's only answer was a sob of unabashed relief.

Far away, a man dreamed of a past he'd rather forget.

It was a yellow sound, bright and open. He did not normally connect colour to music, but this twisting melody wove itself visually in front of him, the tone washed over him like a sea. He floated in it, losing himself to the memory of its tone, swimming in the waves that only just threatened to capsize him if he dared to lose focus. Golden, soft like spun wheat and rippling like the taste of a summer sunset.

That was how he knew he was dreaming.

In real life, things were shades of monochrome black and white. Sometimes, pale blue.

Though never silver.

Silver had disappeared so very long ago.

He dreamed of dark curls atop a small head, and the blisteringly harsh beauty of mountains standing starkly. They threatened to pierce the sky like knives, far higher than the trees and the cities of Man that dwelt far below. From where he stood on the ledge of the outcropping rocks, he could see the smoke from their chimneys, drifting lazily into the air like mist. That darkly-curled head of hair bobbed softly as the small Hatchling stumbled about on unsteady limbs, used to four legs instead of two. Soft babbling in Dragon-Tongue muttered under the child's breath, he watched as the Hatchling gurgled happily to himself. He watched as the small creature wandered over to the edge of the precipice, green-blue eyes sharp and piercing as he scooped up a shining stone from a larger pile of rocks. Cradling it in his fingers, the Hatchling babbled possessively over the stone, examining its shine in the early morning sunlight. Its crystal facets shone over his cheekbones, dazzling shades of purple and indigo and sparkling white. Vivid. The man smiled down at the Hatchling, feeling a swell of affection pass through his chest at the innocent and curious face his little one presented him. He felt a warm pride in the tiny Dragons' searching skills, the collection of treasure a normal and wonderfully instinctive part of growing up for all of his kind.

He was surprised, he remembered that.

Surprised when the Hatchling slowly turned to him, a wide smile on his face as he held the stone out to him to take. Sherlock Holmes laughed, a childish, high-pitched note of joy as he spoke in Dragon-Tongue at him.

"Look; brother, for you!"

And the man woke to the dying echoes of a voice lost to him, and he sat up in the leather chair of his home sharply with a retort already on his lips before he realized it was all an illusion. The dream left him with a feeling of happiness, that slowly drained when he once again saw the flickering embers lying in his fireplace. Staring at the cold, lonely walls of his home, he leaned back into the seat and sighed, passing a hand over his face before reaching to turn the gold ring that rested on his finger. Pale blue eyes stared off into the distance, seeing at a scene that was no longer reality, melting away into the vagueness of memory. He sighed under his breath, wishing he could clutch at the flickering shreds of the dream, the yellow fading to ashen grey with the light of morning peeking through the curtains.

He had fallen asleep in his chair again. Something that had become a habit he couldn't break. He always seemed to dream when he fell asleep sitting up, though he wasn't sure why.

Perhaps in a way, that was why he couldn't stop himself from lying there, night after night.

There were times when he wondered if he'd like to fall asleep and never wake again, if only to continue seeing that cherubic face smiling back at him.

If only to once again catch a glimpse of silver, shining in the corner of his eye.

But these were not good thoughts, and if he dwelt on them for too long, he'd surely lose his mind. It would crumble and break, turn to dust like statues left to ruin. He'd go mad, spiralling into the blackness of despair.

Not that in some ways, he hadn't already.

No.

There was one point of light, no matter how small. One glimmer of hope, shining in the darkness. Like a candle, shuddering and frail. Tiny, but with the promise of a flame. A bonfire, pressed nearly into oblivion. Yet kindled back to life, could regroup and grow into a blazing inferno.

Mycroft Holmes wondered if John knew, just how much such a small light could lend hope when he stared at the face of the cold world he had immersed himself in for someone else's sake.


	8. Coming Apart At The Seams

**Thanks so much for all the reviews! I'm almost caught up with my other account! :3 Enjoy!**

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**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**The Political Situation For Dragonologists (Europe):** _With the unfortunate beginning of the Dragon War, most of Europe has unfortunately taken a rather grim stance against the Dragon species and sympathizers to say the least. In fact, most of North America in general bears ill-will towards the subject of Dragonology, many historians speculating on the fact that the Dragon War began because of the political instability of Europe at the time. Slavery is a legal trade in Europe, and a Dragonologist may find themselves uncomfortable when dealing with this fact. However, it is important to remember that if you are a visitor, creating political unrest in an already war-torn country will likely only bring more suffering to the population. Though the Eastern countries are locked in physical battle, Europe is currently engaged in an unseen war of their own. Bigotry, racial tension and segregation is something most Dragons must face every day within most of North America, and a Dragonologist must be aware of this when studying their subjects. Though it is impossible for one person to change the world, it is possible for many. I firmly believe to this day that small kindnesses and little acts of patience are the key to changing my home country's actions. Though change will not happen overnight, one can only hope that one day, an understanding between Dragon and man alike will be on the horizon._

Going into the centre of District Three was often seen as a hazardous, but necessary drawback to the usually metropolitan-like atmosphere it held further out in the country. However, Mike lived closer to the centre than John did, and so the young man calmly reminded himself that he was a _soldier _and that soon he would be facing terrain that made the heart of the city appear _tame _by comparison. After all, Mrs. Hudson went into town almost every other day, and though she kept a bottle of pepper spray on her at all times just in case, she had never been mugged or attacked. The little old woman had even claimed to have made some friends just over at the little flower shop by their neighbourhood. Surely he could handle himself, if only to get a few groceries and visit his friend before he handled the pressing issue of Sherlock's complete meltdown. There would be time, and he figured that if the Dragon managed to destroy anything too badly, then the fire department would be called to take care of things. He figured if worst came to absolute worst, he'd call for a cab to take back home if he didn't think he could handle it.

If only he had _known._

Back home, John had witnessed very little of London's politics. Growing up in the equivalent of the countryside, the government's hand extended only to encourage the citizens of his slum district to sign up for the war effort. They did everything the could, offering food they wouldn't actually give, and a pension that could barely feed a child let alone a grown man. His school supplies had all been branded with the Queen's emblem (A silver stag and two blades crossed) and John couldn't recall a single piece of sports equipment that hadn't been painted the iconic red and blue. He had learned marching tunes before his own phone number, and when he was small his dreams had been filled with nothing else but the thundering of a thousand feet stepping in time. When he had been older, that's when he had seen the price a man had to pay in order to proudly belt out the beginning of _God Save The Queen._

Still, many people had flocked to the army, John included, as he had been convinced to do so by a fair bit of war propaganda in his time. However what he came to see as he leapt deftly off of the tube was something else entirely. He was assaulted at all sides by the hordes of people, shuffling their way to the surface like ants hearing thunder overhead as they wove in and out of each other to reach their destinations. He stood like a child gripping a tree in the middle of a hurricane, momentarily dazed by the sheer amount of noise and physical _touch _he was abruptly forced to endure. The tunnel emerged into the heart of London, and with it came like a smack across the face the strangest sensation of becoming crawlingly claustrophobic in the middle of a central city.

Concrete buildings arched high over John's head, threatening to pierce the slate-grey sky that threatened the promise of a good rainfall in a few hours. The air was crisp but not freezing, and he flipped the collar of his coat closer against his neck as he wound his way through the oppressive packs of everyday society in an attempt to find a safe corner to catch his breath for just a moment. As he did so, he became aware of the different lines of chatter that flew over his head, hundreds of people having thousands of different discussions at once.

"_Of __**course**__ I'm working, what are you even implying-"_

"_I thought I deserved that promotion, not Blakely. I mean, I did all the work-"_

"_Mom! Can we __**please **__go to the comic book store?! Pleeeeaaaassssee-"_

"_Not today!"_

And above all of it, a tumultuous roar that sounded at first like the pounding of drums, but upon closer inspection was the rumbling of hundreds of people chanting. Protesters flocked the roads and the side-walks, brandishing signs and shouting their discontent like the chorus of tepid bells into the air. The crowds of people were an ugly mob of red and white, their hands holding up signs of a crimson Dragon curled into a ring-like shape. Underneath the symbol were bold-lettered words, some traced on with sharpie, others typed.

_WE WANT EQUALITY._

_DRACS ARE PEOPLE TOO._

_MAKE LOVE. NOT WAR._

_DEATH TO OPPRESSION._

Like the foam to a bloody ocean meeting a wave, they clashed in ugly contrast with their polar opposites, the blue-shirted conservative party brandishing their own signs like swords across the street. Their letters were bright gold, and held emboldened sentences that glinted like a Dragon's treasure as it gleamed in the sun.

_PROTECT TRADITIONAL VALUES_

_DO YOU WANT DRAGONS TO TAKE OVER?_

_SOCIETY WILL CRUMBLE_

_HUMANS GOOD, DRACS BAD._

Truthfully, it felt like a bad rendition of _"Animal Farm"_.

They all stood in front of Buckingham Palace. A symbolic defiance and support of the Dragon War. They crowded the edge of the lawn like they were all facing the edge of a cliff, everyone crowding to get to the front and yet unwilling to slip off the edge. Around them were signs that the riot had been going on for a couple of hours. Overturned cars burned bright with flame, lying on their sides like neglected toys scattered in the road. Broken windows left powdered glass that crunched under John's feet as he walked past them, spray paint dripping off the walls with symbols and messages that were only partially legible. The smell of animosity hung heavy in the air, like a living coil tightening around everyone's throats. The hoards of people fought viciously against the law enforcement trying to hold them back, throwing stones and whatever else they could get their hands on in order to try and get past the impassive wall that was the law.

They also happened to be blocking the street that John needed to go down to get to Mike's flat. The cobblestone way that lead down the narrow path to the living quarters of the military was effectively cut off by the dangerous-looking hordes of people screaming their dissent at the government. Considering some were brandishing Molotov cocktails and Swiss army knives obviously under their coats, the soldier was reluctant to try and push his way through. With his luck, he'd brush arms with the one lunatic hiding a gun.

He could see already law enforcement doing their best to suppress the crowd, a glimpse of silver hair and tired eyes and of curly hair and a caustic tone all he could see before his view was blocked annoyingly by someone taller than him. He huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets and resisting the urge not to look like a put-out five year old as he tried to weave past to find an exit from the press of people. Never before had John despised to such a degree being only five foot six, scowling to himself as he tried to appear as unrelated to the crowd as possible as the sergeants looked for anyone with a possible streak for destruction. It must have been a tough job, as frankly most of the people John ducked around looked prepared to froth at the mouth. Like gathered puppets they leered at the flash of bright badges and shouted as some of their own were subdued with handcuffs. John couldn't help but notice the conservative side had less of their people pinned against cars. All of the sergeants held guns in their hands -a relatively new choice as the riots had become more common place across Europe- and they held them like professionals that had never actually seen battle, left only to practice on still targets.

John managed to slip by and push through the crowds with only one person stopping him. The person, a girl in her late teens with an acid-green streak in her hair and a metallic lip piercing, handed him a brightly-hued flyer with a surprisingly gentle smile. In bold black print was an intense accusation, sitting on top of an image that John knew too well.

A metal collar.

CAN YOU TRUST YOUR GOVERNMENT?

_Secret cameras!_

_Officials being exempt from the law!_

_Dragons euthanized for no reason?!_

_How __**free **__are you?_

_QUESTION THE RULES._

The soldier tried not too look to guilty as his hands went subconsciously towards the inside of his jacket where the _Book of Dragonology _rested. Stiff-faced, he thanked the girl and carried on, suddenly glad that his unimposing height allowed him to melt into the crowd.

He was nearly on the other side of the alley, his figure passing into the shadow of an overhanging sign, when the sound of a gunshot rang out. Turning, John saw a flash of green hair was the girl that had handed him the flyer fell to the ground, clutching her middle in a silent cry of pain. The crowd surged, shouting accusations at the shaking sergeant that held their still-smoking gun. His wide brown eyes were filled with shocked tears as he stared at the muzzle of his own weapon in horror. He looked no older than eighteen. Then he was blocked out as hundreds of bodies rushed at him all at once.

John had no choice but to walk away as the cries of violence escalated into a crescendo like the splitting of a landslide tumbling down a hill. He gritted his teeth until they ached, hands trembling at his sides until the paper crumpled in his palm. The pounding of his own heart filled his skull until his neck felt heavy with its weight. The only thing that kept him from turning back was the image in his mind of Sherlock, alone and vulnerable back home. Was the Dragon waiting for him? Was he in pain? Was his wing troubling him more than usual, and that was the reason he had lost it?

The thought of leaving Sherlock alone when he didn't know what was wrong, of getting arrested or worse left John Watson silent to the violence behind him, and seemingly uncaring as he marched resolutely away.

It was only when he knocked on Mike Stamford's door that John realised with a distant kind of horror that he had neglected to tell Mrs. Hudson he was going out.

Sherlock didn't know what was wrong. By all accounts, the logical part of his brain told him that nothing was amiss. Still the silence of the flat irked him, and his hands trembled with need as his gaze flicked uneasily about the three corners of the living room. Everything chafed like an ill-fitting suit of armour, and his shoulders twitched with nerves. He sat curled in the fourth corner, tail wrapped about himself tightly as he exhaled sharp gusts of fog through his nose, trying to steady his racing heart. It thundered through his veins anyway, and the Dragon could imagine the way his blood vessels were undoubtedly widening, stretching to allow maximum blood-flow through his system. He felt heady from it, his brain swimming with the increase of oxygen.

He had been locked in this defensive position -his view of the door and all window unobstructed- since John had received a telephone call that had called him away. At least, he thought that's what happened. It was vague in his mind, the memory pushed away firmly as he came to realize that he was in an uncharted territory and that he was currently down-spiralling into a _Hoarding Mode. _He couldn't remember the last time he had went into one, but he couldn't deny the itching that was crawling up the crook of his arms and legs, nor how his eyes had narrowed to pained slits as his fever threatened to make a comeback with his elevated heartbeat. He curled further in on himself, attempting to shut out the lights that shone down on him and made seeing painful. A high keening noise filled his ears, and it took him a moment to recognize the voice as his own.

Sherlock still held onto the cake, and already he had begun dragging a few solid items around him. The couch, for one. He hid behind its back, making sure it didn't block his view of any entryways, knees tucked up against his chest as the dessert sat beside him untouched. Elevated stress levels had cut off his hunger from the rest of his body, the desire for safety more pressing and prominent and niggling at the back of his mind like a sore tooth desperate to be pulled. He was shaking, his body seeming determined to tear itself apart even as it desperately looked for more protection. Like a seam unravelling quickly into chaos, the fabric of Sherlock's sanity was beginning to buckle under the pressure of such a shockingly new environment. He teetered on the barest edge of calm, willing to plummet into an icy rage at the first sight of danger. His wings pulsed a thousand flickering colours, unable to keep up with the roaring cocktail that was his emotions.

The only thing that still held him in reality and not allowing him to float away into the safety of dull animal instinct was the music that still played softly out of the radio on the shelf. Being plugged into the wall, Sherlock had quickly guessed he'd be unable to move it without killing the mesmerizing melody that played from its speakers. Even now it drifted over him, washing the Dragon with calming waves that kept him from completely losing himself to his inner monster. The sound of music was unfamiliar to him, something he had been deprived of with his life in the Kennels, and yet it drew up vague memories, imprints left to his thoughts to decipher like ill-preserved charcoal smudgings.

The echo of a wild drumbeat in his ears, the lingering flavour of a nameless hymn in Dragon-Tongue left on his lips, tingling with familiarity. The flicker of shadows dancing along the walls, moving to a beat both mysterious and lovely. When Sherlock blinked, the images faded. His mind instead turned to the other fear collecting in the pit of his stomach:

Unease.

John wasn't home.

His _Master _(because Sherlock was in such a state that his will to be as rebellious as possible crumbled to ashes) had left him, and by all accounts had shown no intention of returning. He may have told Sherlock where he was going, but the Dragon found he was struggling to recall the soldier's words. They came slowly to him, thick and sluggish and unreal with his haze of fear. All he could remember was the adrenaline spike, the pounding of his own heartbeat, and how John's eyes for a moment had flashed raw terror before smoothing into their usual caring tone. His hands tightened about his knees, sudden despair drowning him.

Had he gone to the authorities? Would men with weapons and hard scowls drag him away from this strange alternate dimension? Would he finally be put down like a rabid dog, just when he had tasted what he thought might very well be Heaven? Irrationally, he found himself recalling the way the soldier's hands had felt as he had washed his hair, how those rough calluses had so gently picked apart every knot until his curls had finally come apart to hang wildly about his cheeks. Those hands which so easily could have struck out at him had instead cupped his chin, stroked his ears, treated him as something precious and deserved and _important._

The Dragon wanted to believe it was some kind of misplaced sense of duty, but John's eyes had held nothing but worry for him since he had arrived, and not the kind of worry that would have normally made Sherlock's skin itch in irritation. It was the kind that was not pitying, but firm and unyielding. A sort that wielded itself stronger than any blade the Dragon had ever known, and struck deeper than any whip lash. It rendered Sherlock speechless and senseless, and left him feeling so exposed and vulnerable that it was really no wonder he found himself in this state, wings curled about himself and his shoulders trembling as if he were a Hatchling on unsteady legs. There was no logic, and his world had effectively been shattered with just a smile as warm as sunlight itself, and a hand reaching into the darkness that had kept him blind for so long and hopeless.

He did not want to go.

He did not _want _to _go._

His forehead pressed against his knees, Sherlock made a small sound of distress from the depths of his throat. A keening whimper. The thought of leaving hurt in a visceral, terrifying way, like drowning. It weighed on his chest heavy as a stone and made breathing a difficult task. And yet the Dragon couldn't fathom why. There had once been a time not so long ago when he would have sooner died than become some Human's pet, would have taken a thousand beatings if it meant at the end of the day he wore his chains with contempt and scorn.

Now he was facing the fact that he couldn't bring himself to imagining going back to a life where he couldn't expect kindness to wait for him at the door of _**221 B.**_

_Home._

His teeth sank into his wrist before he even realized what he was doing, dispelling that thought as a wave of pain came over him and he tasted blood on his lips. Growling slightly, he licked the coppery liquid that coated his teeth. For a moment, it felt like it might steady him. The crimson liquid was so familiar, so vivid, that he felt his head clear in an instant. He almost debated biting himself again, mesmerized by the tingling pain that shot up and down his arm.

It was at that moment that a light knocking came from the front door. The Dragon froze, teeth halfway back to his wrist as he gaped with wide, terrified eyes at the black-painted front door. A chirping, elderly voice drifted to his ears. He did not recognize it.

"_Woohoo!_ John; dear? Are you in? I just wanted to see how you were doing..."

The doorknob rattled slightly, strange hands attempting to turn it. Sherlock tensed, a low and threatening growl bubbling up from his chest. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a vicious snarl, and he felt himself poise to spring as he started to shift into his true form. His skin was just beginning to harden into fury-blue armour when the doorknob seemed finally to yield to the stranger's ministrations.

Mrs. Hudson, having wanted to check in on her "kind soldier" was instead left to face a sight that would make most men cower in sheer terror.

The living room of _**221 B **_was in shambles.

Like a tornado the size of a small planet had gone through it, papers and books lay scattered over upturned furniture all over the floor. One of the twin bookshelves had been dragged halfway across the room, creating a barricade further enforced by the couch (which now lay piteously at is side). There were pieces of cutlery spewed erratically all over the place, knives and spoons lying on top of whisks and medical textbooks as well as a human skull pinned to the wall like some kind of morbid warning right above the door (John had to study anatomy one year in school, he had affectionately named the grinning cranium_ Billy_). Mrs. Hudson stared at it wide-eyed for a moment, her voice falling silent as she came to hear the rumbling growl that vibrated through the very floorboards of the flat. She turned back towards the couch as she came to notice that a pair of fierce blue-green eyes glared at her in outrage from behind the shadow of the couch.

Sherlock leaned back on his haunches and prepared to pounce.


	9. Alone Protects Me

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Dealing With PTSD And Other Psychological Trauma (Mental Health):**_ _Just Like Humans, Dragons are just as susceptible to forms of psychological trauma. Though the Draconian species as a whole may seem rather invincible to a Human being, one must understand that they are just as likely to come with a past as dark as any Humans. Often Dragons have come under my care as sexual assault survivors, war veterans, and even prisoners of battle. As a result, mental trauma is a sadly common thing I've had to witness. When dealing with any kind of psychological issue a Dragonologist must have above all: Patience. Listen to your Dragon. Communication is important and key. If the trauma appears to be severe, considering getting the help of a trained professional. Allow yourself to be a sound board for your Dragon, offering comfort to them when needed and avoiding situations in which your Dragon could become potentially stressed (See page 533). Ask about triggering factors, such as scents or places that your Dragon may find uncomfortable. Be gentle. Be considerate. And most of all, be there for them. _

Meriath, or "Molly" as she was now apparently aptly nicknamed, had grown up in the Kennels all of her life. Her Mother, once a proud warrior during _The Times Of Blood _(As the Dragons called the beginning of The War) had been captured as a prisoner, her mate killed in battle by some of the first Human Crusades.

Unable to defend her partner due to the fact that she had been protecting her nest (Molly had a younger brother and sister, but to this day she didn't know what became of their eggs), the proud Dragon had almost managed to succeed in protecting her eldest child from the men that came to take her. If she strained to remember, Molly could still see the flames her mother had spat that night upon the men that had slowly climbed their way up to her den. She could still feel their heat, warming the back of her ears as she had been pressed against her mother's side. If she strained to listen, she could still hear the lullaby she sang for the last night they shared together in that cave.

She didn't remember what they did to her.

What became of her mother.

Somehow, she suspected she never made it to the Kennels. There was only so much grief a Dragon's heart could stand, and Molly knew that night her mother had watched everything she had ever cared about be torn away from her grasp. The loss of a mate sometimes instantly killed a Dragon, and the loss of a Hatchling was something too terrible to even consider. In fact, there was a word for Dragon's who could not bear children.

_SànChu._

An insult in the highest degree. A word that Molly knew too well, seeing as when her body reached puberty, it was evident by the mark on her shoulder that she was impotent. For this reason, she hadn't been able to join her sisters in the Breeding Program, and had instead been considered for war service. Unfortunately, it became instantly apparent that though her heart had a great willingness to try, it was not nearly as strong as her brothers' and sisters'. She flinched at the loud sounds of bomb raid drills ringing in the air, whimpered at whips and cowered when the Humans came and roughly grabbed her chin and pulled at her shoulders like she was property to be handled. She only spat fire when in pain, and not out of aggression.

She had come to accept the fact that even if she was chosen for battle, she'd be luckier to be sold as a whore than be faced with becoming a weapon.

When Mike had knelt at her Kennel, she had almost believed it to be too good to be true. She has leaned into his touch like she was seeing the sun for the first time, and for an instant the Dragon had almost believed that her Mother's hands were cupping her face. She had nearly cried, terrified and not understanding when she was thrown into a foul-smelling crate in the back seat of a car and forced to listen to another Dragon's terrifying snarls.

However, it soon became apparent to Molly almost as soon as she was taken away from her old home (more like prison) that Mike had absolutely no _clue_ how to care for a Dragon.

For one, Molly soon found herself rapidly unsure of where she stood in her new Master's presence. Mike was... different than the Humans she had encountered before. Kinder. He didn't shout at her when she accidentally dropped his favourite mug while trying to make him a cuppa in the morning, nor did he order her around as much as other Masters had. In fact, Molly had found her usually tightly-strung nerves being soothed by the husky but gentle face that would smile at her approvingly when she did something right, which admittedly wasn't all that often. Though she admittedly didn't understand much of Human-Speak, she did know when orders were harsh or cruel, and Mike's tone was never either of those. In fact he was soft... hesitant almost, and almost reminded her of a Hatchling attempting to be a full-grown adult, all awkward limbs and overly-false confidence. He blushed beet-red when she called him "Master" and stuttered when she had asked him in confused and broken English why she hadn't been hit for failing to prepare him his evening meal. Molly hadn't understood what he said when he placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into eyes, but if she had, she might have cried.

"You don't have to do that. I...I'm not like them. I couldn't be if I tried...Believe me, I wish I could be sometimes..."

She shyly, quietly, grew to like him if not trust him. Maybe it was just because she liked looking after children, but she saw a vulnerability in the young man that made the Mother that had died long ago inside of her rekindle to life.

In the end, what had brought the illusion of safety tumbling down had been something horrifyingly simple.

Mike hadn't realized that there were certain scents that triggered things in Molly's memory, echoes that triggered her memories of the past. She was no stranger to sexual abuse, and when she woke to the sharp and acrid tang of cologne hanging heavily in the air, her sleep-addled mind immediately snapped to a Master she would have much rather forgotten. Opening her eyes, she saw not the plain bed she had been given to sleep in, but a relic of a past time that made her shudder and cower in fear.

_It hurt._

_Chains pulled at her, dragging her unwillingly from her crate as she kicked and cried. Her nails were bloodied from her attempts to grip at the iron bars surrounding her, desperately trying to break free even as the choke collar tightened about her throat. She could feel its burn, tingling up her neck as she spat fire weakly even while coughing up lungfuls of water. They had drenched her before they got ready to pull her out of the cage, and the clear liquid that heaved up her throat was ashen and murky and mixed with the brimstone that normally came with her breath. Soaking and shivering, Molly winced at the bright lights that filled her vision as she was pulled by the neck and wrists across the dirty floor of the club. The name of the place was written in brassy letters, and as her eyes adjusted it was the first thing she saw. She didn't know how to read, but if she had she would have fought if possible harder against her captor's hold._

_**The Devil's Pleasure.**_

_The air was smoky, she remembered that when she thought back to that night. It choked her, the fake fire-breath that Humans inhaled and breathed out from white sticks they held to their lips. Funny-tasting and foul. It made her sensitive nose wrinkle in distaste, and she curled her wings about her half-Human form to hide her bare body from the lingering eyes that followed her as she was pulled along. The man who lead her wore a dark suit and had glittering grey eyes, and he roughly backhanded her when she tried weakly to spit fire. He shouted-coarse, hard words- before lifting The Clicker in the air and brandishing it like a weapon. Molly cowered, the thought of being shocked too terrible to contemplate as she was already hurting so much. She felt so small, surrounded by men so much taller than her and so much more threatening. Lost in a violent hurricane of glittering drinks and lingering hands. She felt filthy and broken in the presence of such opulence, watches glittering gold around wrists and earrings glinting softly and winking at her by the neck's of Humans. She looked so thin, compared to them. So frail. So tiny._

_Molly wondered why then their eyes followed her hungrily, looking at her scaled tail like it was something to be gawked at as they whispered behind their hands. Her eyes flicked restlessly about, her wings clipped to prevent flight. They throbbed in pain._

_Her Master, the man in the suit brought her to The Room as she came later to call it. A background place, tucked away behind the bar. She could remember the squeaking of the hinges, louder than her own pounding heart as she was all but thrown inside. She could remember the way she stumbled over the stone steps, nearly toppling and sobbing for mercy when strange arms caught her on the other side. Pressed up against unfamiliar skin, Molly tasted on her tongue the stinging edge of an unfamiliar perfume wafting into her nose._

_Bitter and blistering, something spicy and heavy. It was mixed with breath hot and sour on her cheeks._

_And then hands trailing slowly down her arms, pinning her wrists to her sides as slowly she looked up and realized with a whimper that her chains had been shackled to a bed-_

That unfortunately, was the moment Mike gently tapped on her bedroom door, wondering if his Dragon wanted any breakfast. He had just been getting ready to go out on a date with a nice girl he'd met at the café down the road, and had even put on a new cologne she had bought him. He opened the door just in time to see Molly's expression crack in fear before he was very suddenly being thrown backwards, and the young soldier cracked his head against the wall and saw stars.

Then a dangerous, savage roar shook him from the base of his spine to his toes.

There was much about Mrs. Lena Hudson that not many people knew. Having moved to London nearly thirty years ago, she had developed a rather prominent British accent overtime, and thus could pass fairly well to an untrained ear and untrained eye. Coming originally from District Seven in America (What used to be Florida), the elderly woman held a fair few trade secrets from her youth that one might not necessarily expect. For instance, she knew how to peel an orange so that its skin would unravel in a perfect spiral, having eaten many in her childhood with her younger sister (now dead and gone, sadly). She also knew how to appreciate a little bit of rain, since her home-town had scarcely been more than a desert during the summer, and so London by comparison was a viable rainforest. But most of all, Lena Hudson knew how to spot a soul that was hurting from a mile away, because she recognized the primal ache that both man and beast tried to hide when the ones they loved wounded them.

After all, she had seen it in her own face until the day her husband committed suicide, after going on a killing spree that shocked her small District and effectively alienated her from her friends and family in an instant. The move to London hadn't been a choice of luxury. It had in the end been a _necessity._

Murder did things to a person.

Of that there was no doubt.

But finding out that the person you had spent nearly _twenty years_ with was nothing more than a fabricated lie? Well, that in some ways changed a person on an entirely other _level._

Lena Hudson was a different woman than she once had been.

Kinder.

Strangely observant at times.

And above all _forgiving._

The fact that she was also fluent in Dragon-Tongue, her husband having taught her as he had a job in training the creatures, was just an added bonus in light of the very bad situation she quite suddenly found herself in.

Sherlock's muscles strained with the impressive leap he made over the couch he'd stacked in front of him, half-Human shape landing animalistically on all fours as a threatening snarl emitted from his lips. He landed on the balls of his feet, wings flared protectively about him like massive sails as a shuddering hiss like the air leaving a can of soda rushed from his teeth. He eyed the intruder warily through slitted irises, scales shifting eerie and threatening shades of menacing green and hazard-yellow. He was caught between shifting into his full-form and staying in his half one, still too strung out to think coherently, unsure if the small creature before him can be considered a sufficient threat. She stood firm but mousy-looking before him, and the logical part of his brain insisted she'd be no more than a mouthful to eat in his full-form. Still her eyes are strangely clear and omniscient, and she gazed at Sherlock unflinchingly though her knuckles curl at her sides and give away her suppressed fear. Her scent was calm, and lingered in the air the faint aroma of chocolate and orchids. It made Sherlock think immediately of the cake still lying tucked away behind his fortress, and for a moment his growls faded away into a faint sound of confusion as his stomach gurgled piteously. Though in the next instant he reigned in his biological betrayal, the old woman before him smiled kindly, seeming to have heard his silent protest. When she opened her mouth, Sherlock tensed, preparing to lash out at the slightest provocation. Sweat beaded the back of his neck, the desire to _hunthuntprotectmaim__**FIGHT-**_

Still humming in his blood.

Instead, he found a soft, whispered greeting in a tongue he knew but was scarcely allowed to use.

"_Næchen, Hershetz li Ȑost." (Greetings, young lord.)_

Sherlock's growls cut short, confusion lacing his features as he inhaled deeply, searching for a taint of Dragon. He found only Human scent before him, deceptively soft and fragile. He growled out a curt response without thinking, slowly drawing himself upright as vague imprints of manners pulled at him. Foolish traits he should have abandoned long ago and yet could not delete. When he spoke, his voice rasped from disuse. The Dragon realized with some surprise that he had not spoken in a very long time. It would not do to be impolite, if only because tradition mandated so.

" _Næchen, salFah li, ermiest Fochen. Șyandor?" (Greetings, Mistress. You are a stranger, the blonde one has not told me your purpose. What is your purpose here?)_

He noticed her accent was a little flawed as she replied, but she kept the flute-like tone of Dragon-Tongue surprisingly well as she smiled at him, seemingly delighted by his response. Sherlock was still on-guard, and he felt a petty instinct to scream _MINE _as he saw how her feet hovered just outside the threshold of _**221 B.**_

"_Fochen dai Gah. Irch John Tariel hist faust." (The blonde one is a __**Son**_ (For Dragons were known to think of friends as family) _To me. His name is John, and he lets me into his territory)_

Sherlock reared on his hind legs, standing like a Human in order to appear as imposing as possible. He felt a slow snarl rumble in his chest like thunder as his eyes flashed with mistrust, teeth bared and once again poised on the blade of a knife.

"_ESHAT! Ẅo shuben Tariel John! Eshat... Yersh Koshken Trast." (LIAR. All lies as John has let no one into his territory before! Liar... The Gods will eat your heart for half-truths...)_

Mrs. Hudson did not flinch, not even when Sherlock began to breathe mist about her. It floated around the room, fogging her vision and sending cool prickles of moisture to settle on her skin. She resisted the urge to shiver, standing her ground despite the Dragon's size and fury. She had learned that with those that were trying to bully, their bark was often worse than their bite. Though she somehow didn't think this creature made a habit of it, there was no doubt now that Sherlock was doing everything in his power in order to force her to subjugate.

"_Yersh Naust Nen. John ashkera naun?" (I do not believe in wrathful Gods. Where is your John?)_

She watched as the Dragon flinched at her implication, eyes widening before narrowing into slits. His scales flashed the colour of starlight itself before turning a sulky grey, his petulance incredibly obvious, though he made an effort to hide it. He masked his hurt by huffing scathingly

"_Nen. Nen John. Ishka. Ishka est ert." (No. Not my John. Alone. I am alone.)_

He crossed his arms over his chest, a brief flicker of pride glittering in his eyes before he thought about what he just said. The emptiness of his own sentence shook him.

Then the mighty beast seemed to deflate, the fight draining out of his limbs as the weight of his own words hung heavily on him. His storm-blue eyes cooled to an ashen grey as his body instinctively tried to curl in on itself, his body crouching once more into a defensive ball as his wings hid the pain behind his false indifference. The old woman didn't know that she'd hit the exact nerve that Sherlock has been striking himself all day, the sensation raw and painful as he clutched at his wrists which bled sluggishly now and contemplated hiding back behind the sofa. He was surprised when after a beat of breath, the woman's soft voice called him from the barrier of his wings. He could make out the outline of her, curled hair and purple dress and arthritic hands. Soft edges and a hidden smile.

She spoke with a weight of wisdom that seemed larger than such a small body could bear. Surely, something so frail couldn't sound so certain of her own words. Not when Sherlock himself couldn't speak without shaking.

"_Ishka ert? Nen. John. Fraulen essix dkath." (You're alone? No. John. John's been there to help)_

"_John hautch. Ishka ghaus Shyior..." (John Left. Alone is what I have...)_

And then, softer. Like a whisper of death. His hands curled into fists in his lap, knuckles turning white.

"_Ishka Xiaoli." (Alone Protects me.)_

And in that moment, Sherlock doubted his own words.

He wished, just once in his life, he could dare to be wrong.


	10. Trust

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Comforting A Dragon (The action of): ** _What many people fail to realise is that Dragons when they are in vulnerable states of mind are extremely physical creatures. In a natural environment, a Dragon grows up amidst brothers and sisters, as well as several relatives all living in one den. As a Hatchling they are rarely for want of physical affection (see page 444 for special exceptions) and so as adults when in distress a Dragon may want some semblance of physical touch. A Dragon's skin is extremely sensitive, and for a mate or a family member to offer a reassuring hand when needed is important. Dragon's also have an extremely sensitive sense of smell, and may want to 'surround' themselves with scents they find comforting (refer back to hoarding page). This could be the smell of a mate or close friend, or a child if the Dragon has Hatchlings. Prolonged isolation will almost always bear a negative affect on a Dragon's mental health, and it is advised to get to know other Dragons in the neighbourhood so that your Dragon will never feel too alone. Of course, once back to a regular state of mind, a Dragon will most likely like to pretend to be aloof from such affection. This is why it is good to treasure the rare moments when your Dragon opens up to you, as the action of doing so shows a great deal of trust between two friends. _

The first thing John realised was that he could smell smoke. Like brimstone, it filled the air heavily as Mike opened the door. John gaped at his friend as he took in the man's frazzled appearance, jaw hanging open as he found himself staring at a black shadow rather than his friend. Mike was covered in what looked to be charcoal, the streaky black lines smeared across his cheeks and hands, covering his dark brown hair and turning it ashen and dull in the sun. He blinked at John through the soot rimming his glasses, seeming for a second not to recognise him until all of a sudden his eyes widened and he tugged his friend inside by an iron-grip to his sleeve.

Once inside, John saw with no surprise that most of the windows to Mike's small but posh flat were open. This was to help the brackish smoke that hung low in the air to ventilate, and wisps of it curled out into the air. Both of them coughed as the door closed, John's sounding much healthier than his friend's. Mike's cough sounded like he had been spending his free time inside a furnace, which given the scene laid out before him, John supposed was true.

Though Mike had lived in a slum district, it was a little known secret that John's friend didn't originally come from a poor name. His Mother, a woman named Willow Evelyn, had been distantly related to the Monarchy, before the War came and turned the government into a thinly veiled dictatorship. Said women in her time had arrived in the poorer district on the eve of a ghostly train in the middle of the night. She had no tags, barely any luggage to her name, and had been in tears when Mike's Father had met her at the Inn she stayed at that night. A barkeeper, and a shy one at that, he had been at first reluctant to pry into the woman's story. She had been a solitary figure, dark brown hair hiding her face and her melancholy just barely as she had stared into her drink. When he finally had gotten the nerve to approach her, he found out that Willow had run away from her home.

When he asked why, she had only ever responded with simply

"I needed to get away. I just wanted to get away..."

He had eventually introduced himself as Charles. Charles Stamford. The story went that she smiled at him, and in that moment her watery blue eyes had lit up her features to a warming glow, and the young man had realized with a start that he was completely smitten.

They had married within the year.

Though Mike's Mother had long passed (sickness, there had been a coughing disease one winter that took many people) her legacy it appeared had lived on. When Mike had attended her funeral, he had discovered that his Mum had kept more money than he knew tucked away for him.

She had also left him the flat, which even though it was obviously beautiful, was currently blazing in flame.

Mike on his part, seemed to be handling the entire thing relatively well. At least, he was crying instead of screaming. Which was perfectly reasonable, considering John felt like screaming himself as he realised what he had gotten himself into.

There was fire flickering amongst foam from a fire extinguisher, the walls blackened with the paint beginning to curl and flake in the air. Leather chairs had been over-toppled in the hallway, picture frames smashed to bits. Glass crunched underfoot as John stepped forward like gravel, loud in the eerie silence of the flat that was only punctuated by the crackling of live flame.

John was about to ask what exactly happened, when his query was cut off with a rumbling that he felt from the base of his spine to the tips of his toes. It was a terrible noise, gut-wrenching and distinctly predatory, the kind that made a man's hair stand on end and his knees tremble. At least it would have, if John hadn't grown quite used to such noises from his life with Sherlock as of late. Mike watched with some trepidation and surprise as his friend sighed a put-upon sigh, scratching the back of his neck before seeming to level his shoulders in silent determination. When he unzipped the edge of his jacket and pulled out a thick green-covered tome, Mike raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"You're sure reading is the right thing to do? I managed to lock her in the bedroom, but that door's not going to hold for long."

As if to punctuate that statement, the terrible cracking of splintering hinges echoed throughout the flat. It was followed by another hair-raising roar. Smoke billowed down the stairs.

John looked at his friend, and Mike saw something glimmer in those blue eyes that he had never noticed before. A sort of spark, something heated that flashed like lightning cresting a storm in a dark field. It took him a moment to realise what it was, and when he did he considered the idea that John Watson might be just a bit mad.

It was excitement, a craving to chase the dangerous.

Except it wasn't over Molly.

Because even Mike could tell that John's thoughts were far away when he easily replied

"Lately I've had to deal with worse."

Mrs. Hudson (As she had introduced herself to him cheerily) didn't seem to much care for Sherlock's obvious barriers around his horde. Though she was careful not to step directly into his little corner of territory, she had a tendency to flutter just outside on the edge. Though Sherlock snarled at her whenever she tried to move anything he had claimed as "his", she was determined it seemed to right the flat as much as she could. Overturned chairs turned back onto their legs, the table which still had dishes on it from this morning was cleaned, and she hummed to herself a small, nameless tune even while smiling under the Dragon's suspicious glare.

Though Sherlock wanted nothing more than for the old woman to leave him alone, there was something decidedly Motherly about her presence, and the small instinct he had to respect the elderly niggled at him just enough to keep him from hurting her. He tried to tell himself it was for that reason at least, and not because her company kept away some of the dark thoughts that were circling his mind as he curled back into the corner behind the couch. Absently, he nibbled on a piece of cake as his sharp eyes ran over the old woman, the chocolatey flavour rich and sweet on his tongue. It was good, really, _really_ good, and illogically Sherlock's brain tried to tell him that anyone with this kind of cooking ability couldn't be evil.

Instead he licked his lips when she wasn't looking and went for another piece, carefully gathering data about John's strange housekeeper (Whatever _that_ was) even while listening to the soft song the old woman sang.

_In her mid to late seventies, suffered from an abusive mate. Now long dead murder charges pressed. Grew up not in London but somewhere in America, probably Florida given that her skin has grown up with a slight tan and she seems to be around the right age for the large immigration that happened when the War began. Likes to sew and watch crap telly, is gentle and owns no Dragon. However has owned one before, or at least interacted with them given her knowledge with language. Husband's job? Highly probable. More data needed. Bakes sweets._

The radio had long since stopped playing, if he strained he could make out the edges of lyrics to Mrs. Hudson's song.

_Three little children dancing in the sun, oh la, dee day la dee day,_

_One shoots water into the sky for fun oh la, dee day la dee day,_

_One breathes fire, paints the sun oh la, dee day la dee dee day._

_The last brings snow, turning the world so white oh la, dee day oh la dee day,_

_Then all must leave, time to go home oh la, dee day dee day._

It was a simple little rhyme, but Sherlock recognised the meaning behind the lyrics easily. He guessed it to be from before the War began, as such songs weren't sung very often by Humans any more. Anything that glorified Dragons in anyway had been banned from teaching in schools. Sherlock knew because he had been a servant of families before. The children had always looked at him with a complicated mix of mistrust and fascination, and he had reciprocated the stares more often than not with a glower of his own.

Though he understood Human-Speak far better than he was about to let on, he surprised himself when he found his thoughts following the tune, something hypnotic and light about the melody that drew his interest. Mouth still sweet from the lingering taste of chocolate, Sherlock was slightly irritated as he realised the soft, rumbling and vulnerable noise that echoed throughout the flat was coming from himself. He rolled his eyes as he rook into account the fact that he was all but crying like a bloody Hatchling, and instead found himself curling more tightly into his protective ball. If Mrs. Hudson heard the noise, she was good enough not to comment.

The fact was, Sherlock felt like he was drifting, and he wasn't sure what to use to keep him connected to reality. There were so many thoughts in his head, each one destructive and demanding. Like sitting in the eye of the storm, he felt like he was watching them all tear each other apart. He could only try to pluck one at a time from the hurricane, shelter one thought from the desolation. For some reason, the one he kept picking was at once brutally honest as it was horrifying.

_I want him to come home. I want this to be my home. I don't want to be alone..._

He was unaware when Mrs. Hudson carefully stepped into his hoard, singing halting as she brought something held carefully in her hands. When she reached the edge of the couch she stopped, listening for a moment to the high keening growls that the Dragon made as he tried to make himself shrink into a sharp bundle of elbows and knees. It was the same sort of noise that she had watched Hatchlings make when they had been separated from their Mothers too early. A kind of broken burble, one that had often pulled her heartstrings even when she had still been married. To hear it coming from a fully grown Dragon, a creature that should be strong and fierce and proud, it broke her heart.

She didn't know if it would work, but she was willing to try. Carefully she leaned forward, still aware of the hidden strength in Sherlock's limbs that could tear her apart. She made full moves, certain that he knew she was there even if was only subconsciously.

Sherlock barely felt it when she wrapped around his thin shoulders something woollen and soft, his mind instead latching onto the scent that filled his nostrils. Immediately he clutched the fabric about his wiry frame, brushing his cheek against the oatmeal jumper before he could help himself and inhaling deeply.

The growingly familiar scent of tea and warmth filled him, calming his pounding heart and making him floaty with relief. Like a spring being uncoiled, he could feel the energy leaving him, draining out of his limbs like water. It was at once both soothing and distressing, how easily one person's scent could calm the roaring in his mind. He wanted to fight it, but it was like a balm to a flaming wound, and he could have cried with relief. Instead he stopped whimpering, small sounds turning into a half-ashamed purr of content. Guilty.

Sherlock looked at the woman carefully before him, half sure she'd mock him for his weakness. However she didn't seem to mind, sitting on the couch backwards to face him and watch his reaction carefully. The Dragon wanted to be mad. He wanted to be able to rage and spit ice and snarl, but everything was suddenly too much to handle. He felt himself slipping, and for some reason that scared him almost as much as it was delightful.

Mrs. Hudson smiled as the Dragon's hunched frame finally started to relax, not surprised in the slightest when Sherlock's chin began to hang forward, sleep tugging the Dragon firmly. She pulled on his hand gently, no longer quite so worried he'd attack her in a moment's notice, laying him out gently on the floor before standing to grab an afghan and some pillows. When she returned, she was surprised to see that the massive wings and curling horns that had been Sherlock's last vestiges of protection were gone. In fact, the man that lay curled around a woollen jumper before her looked shockingly Human. If it weren't for the thick collar encircling his throat, one would never be able to tell. His bare form was covered with old wounds and bruises, and the old woman tutted sadly before throwing the blanket around his huddled form. The Dragon muttered slightly, fighting sleep for a second longer as he looked at her with hazed blue-green eyes. His voice was soft and childish, and a thousand times more fragile than Sherlock would ever be willing to admit. Though the murmurs were in Dragon-Tongue, Mrs. Hudson understood the question asked completely.

"_He will come back, won't he? He won't go...?"_

Smiling, the old woman patted the Dragon's knee softly before cupping his head, lifting it up to tuck a pillow underneath. Her hands were warm, Sherlock thought. Small and wrinkled but gentle.

He tucked his nose back against the jumper, dreams already filtering into his mind. Flickers of images. Stars. Snow. _Sleep._

He barely heard her response, but it carried into his dreams. Wrapped him up safely in comfort, because the Dragon couldn't help but trust the old woman, and coasted silently into the waves of his mind.

"_Where else would he go?"_

Molly smelled it when someone else entered her and Mike's territory. A Dragon's nose was at least five times stronger than a Human's, and she picked up the vaguely familiar scent even though she was disoriented and wasn't quite sure what was going on.

She knew that somehow, what had happened to her room was her fault. There were small patches of fire everywhere, the smoke alarm (which had been turned off in a moment of foresight from Mike) barely visible on the ceiling from the haze that blurred everything. It didn't affect Molly's breathing, being a Dragon, but she knew right away that Humans could die from smoke asphyxiation and immediately looked around in panic for her Master. He was nowhere in sight.

However her terror receded when she found she could smell him, his presence still in the flat. Next to a stranger's scent. She couldn't remember what had happened, but when she went to cautiously open the door to her bedroom she found with a jolt that the door was locked.

Mike had _never _locked her in before. The thought in itself was immediately distressing. She did not like locked doors, did not like rooms she could not leave. Molly tugged a little, hoping the lock was just stuck. It held firm. A bubbling panic began to fill her as she tried to remember what had happened.

Closing her eyes, the images came in disjointed shards. Fractured scenes, playing out in her head in such a way that they made no sense.

Cloying perfume.

Fear, crawling over her skin and tightening around her throat like a metal band, pulling a noose that constricted her breathing and made everything burn

_-Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me stop-_

Mike's terrified face.

Smoke and the brilliant scarlet-orange of molten flame.

Things that did not make sense. Molly tried to force the memories, to recall what had just happened, and came up against a stubborn wall that refused to be budged. She swallowed the instinctive cry that wanted to leave her throat, panicked thoughts coming to a dawning horror as her mind demanded answers.

_Where is my Master?_

_Is he okay?_

_Who is the stranger?_

She didn't have long to wait to find out the answer. Molly's ears pricked as she heard two sets of footsteps walking determinedly up the stairs. Baring her teeth, she hunched into a small, defensive position away from the door, wine-red wings flared in warning.

However, nobody came to barge into her room. Curiously enough, the footsteps paused right outside the door. Tails whipping in confusion, she waited tensely for some kind of assault or attack, a low growl rumbling in her chest as smoke drifted from between her gritted teeth. A soft, unfamiliar voice drifted to her, Human-Speak slow and deliberate, firm in its question. It took her a moment, but she understood what was being asked.

"_My name is John Watson. I'm a friend of Mike's. I'm not going to harm you. I promise. Can we come in to your territory?"_

For a moment she feared it was a trick question. Molly had never been asked before. She had never been anything but ordered. Surely it was some trick. She waited patiently for the order, tail twitching in impatience. However, none came. Soon the question came again, this time in Mike's quavering voice, and the Dragon realised in shock that John Watson had been serious. She felt herself sway lightly in place with the force of it, not knowing quite what to do. Her confusion must have manifested in some noise or another, because her Master's voice spoke softly.

"I'm not mad Molly. I just want to help you. You're scaring me is all."

_Scaring? Was she scary?_

Molly thought, wondering with fear what she had done. She looked into the mirror, cracked and broken from an event she couldn't remember, and realised with a jolt that she looked terrifying. Her copper-brown locks were messy and wild, her dark brown eyes slitted in defence. Her teeth had become angular and pointed in rage, and her wings billowed behind her in great big sails, tearing a hole into the back of the nightgown Mike had bought for her. Her tail curled ruby-red about her legs, dark spines glinting dangerously. She didn't know what had happened.

Would she be punished? If so, she should let them in. Better to be agreeable than draw things out and make them angry. She shook at the thought.

Drawing a deep breath, she used what little broken English she knew to affirm her consent, hoping her voice didn't waver.

"You can come in."

Still it was a moment before they did, and quite a while longer until Molly fully realised what had happened.

John watched after nearly an hour of gentle coaxing as Molly curled herself around Mike, sobbing into his neck like a small child and winding her tail about his middle protectively. She begged forgiveness, trying to explain in broken English why she had reacted that way and what had made her scared. Clutching to him like she didn't want to let go, her voice came in a high and broken rasp that sounded so small and scared for something with so much killing potential. Though her grammar wasn't perfect, both men understood enough that John's hands tightened into fists for the tiny, sweet dragon and Mike's cheeks flushed red in unspeakable anger.

Sobbing, Molly hiccuped apologies but continued to cling to her Master, horrified that she had nearly barbecued him over something that wasn't his fault. She couldn't bear to look either man in the eye, fearing punishment almost as much as she wanted it over with. Yet no harsh blows or words came, and after a beat of silence, she looked up to see Mike looking down at her with wide-eyed sadness. When his lips moved, she didn't understand what he said.

"I-I never knew... I never- They never told me-"

The young man cut off, biting his lip. He looked at John, eyes wide and pleading. John could see the betrayal in that gaze, the shock that anyone could _do _this to another person.

_Except they're not people in the government's eyes, are they?_

John's mind whispered tauntingly

_Really, they're little more than livestock... _

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop the flood of anger that made him suddenly want to hit something. Mike continued to talk, oblivious to his friend's anger.

"Is... is this normal? Is this what happens to them? How they _break_ them?"

Mike spat the word _break_, large and trusting eyes threatening to fill with tears of his own. It was obvious his Dragon didn't really understand much English, but she recognised the wounded and vulnerable tone. Soft, comforting sounds came from her throat as she clutched to him tighter, her body like a furnace of heat that John could feel even from where he sat. The way Mike held her was like an older brother protecting his sister, and his friend's mind suddenly flashed to Sherlock when they had been in the bath.

_Don't touch me._

John's throat was uncharacteristically tight. His stomach felt like it was twisting itself into tight knots, layer upon layer until his abdomen felt swollen with it. Like he had swallowed stones, it took John a while before he could speak evenly, and when he could he cringed as if the action burned him.

"It's... common... the book says...it has a lot of tips on how to help with this sort of thing..."

Mike's eyes flicked to the heavy tome, now tucked once again into John's jacket. Just the edge of it peeked out from the open zipper, and Mike found his lips twisting into a small grimace of worry. He had seen the title of it, despite John's obvious wish to keep its contents secret, and Mike knew for a fact that it wasn't just a book you could buy off the internet.

"Where did you _get _that thing mate? Christ it has to be _illegal_ on so many different levels..."

His friend didn't reply, instead fixing him with a small, desperate look.

"Please Mike. You can't tell anyone. _Please. _They'll take him away if I can't care for him-"

John broke off, the thought sending a spike of pain through his chest. He was so, so _close _to finally gaining Sherlock's trust. Already he feared his absence would cause setbacks. He chafed to get home, now that it was evident that Molly would no longer be destructive. He needed to make sure Mrs. Hudson was okay, and that life at _**221 B **_was as it had been when he had left. More than anything, he dreaded going back to the silence of the flat, the cold loneliness that had lingered in it before. It was strange, but ever since Sherlock had entered his life, John hadn't been bored. Suddenly, life had a purpose and an interest, and its name was Sherlock the Dragon. He no longer felt an oppressive need for routine, no longer felt as if the days dragged on. The idea of someone coming and taking the Dragon away, just when John felt Sherlock was beginning to trust him was painful. He could picture the betrayed look on the creature's face, picture how wide those blue-green eyes would get before narrowing into slits of hatred. It couldn't happen, John wouldn't let it. He glared at Mike, willing him to see that he wasn't going to budge until his friend agreed.

Mike had known John for a long time, and never had he seen such a willingness to fight.

Such a fierce protectiveness.

Holding Molly, he thought he understood. There was something wonderful and strange about Dragons, something at once terrifying and magnetizing. There was an adrenaline, brushing elbows with something so dangerous, and a pride at earning their trust. As it was, he couldn't imagine ever purposefully hurting his own Dragon. Despite what everyone warned against, it was impossible to look into Molly's eyes and see nothing but a small and scared girl, and Mike knew that it was that reason that had lead him to picking her in the first place. He wasn't even attracted to Molly in a romantic way, like he half-suspected John was to Sherlock. Still, he'd be more than willing to die trying to protect her.

If John's Dragon was even remotely the same, then he'd have to fight his friend tooth and nail to give something like that up.

With a sigh, Mike hung his head, knowing he was screwed. Keeping his voice low he ran soothing circles under the collar around Molly's neck, pleased when his Dragon slowly began to relax against him.

"Fine. But if you get caught I am _not _involved. I'm _not _kidding. If someone arrests you, I won't vouch on your side."

He tried to sound firm, but Mike's eyes were glittering with resignation. Both knew instantly that he was lying. John's face broke out into a wide grin, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Reaching out to pat Mike once on the shoulder, the blonde young man chuckled.

"Well, fine then. Next time don't come crying to me when something goes wrong."

John smirked at the horrified look Mike gave him in response.


	11. Action And Words

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**_Possessiveness In Dragons (Nature of): _**_Dragons are naturally possessive creatures. They feel a need to own things and to claim, which is obvious when faced with a Dragon's __**Hoarding Instinct **__(See page 553 for details). However, even outside of times of extreme stress, it is good for a Dragon to be able to exercise control over things. A Dragon that does not own things can easily fall into depression and become listless, and have trouble finding self-worth in themselves. This is partially because of natural instinct, but also because of a Dragon's childhood. In tradition, the Mother of the egg is given Gifts by their family members and surrounding tribes, so that the Hatchling isn't born without a sense of safety and completion. Some Dragons may feel a need to 'Claim' perceived family members and friends, especially if they do not have much to claim for themselves to begin with. It is a perfectly harmless action, and can be shown in simple things such as __**Scenting **__(marking the Human with their own smell by rubbing or petting or simple touch) and worry when said person leaves their sight. __**Mating **__is a deeper kind of possessiveness, and markedly different from most other Bonding rituals (see page 483 section C for details)._

John finally got home by the time mid-afternoon rolls around, his errands having left him laden with bags of both groceries and new clothes for Sherlock. The tea-tree oil smelled sharp and strange amongst the other simple ingredients, and as he made his way up the stairs he couldn't help but wonder if the other Dragons within the flat complex could smell it. Lord knows it had made him rather desensitized by the time he made it back to _**221 B. **_He was in a rush, already worried that he had spent so much time away. He had been forced to navigate through the riot again, and then he had nearly missed his bus and had bumped into on exceedingly short-tempered old woman who insisted he apologise profusely. As a result, John was already itching in his skin, worried that if a _White- Card _like Molly could set a building on fire, what the likes of Sherlock might do all alone.

However even the strongest scent of tea-tree oil or stress couldn't mask the warm smell of chocolate biscuits set to bake as John looked about anxiously for Mrs. Hudson, trying to catch a glimpse of the old woman in hopes that she hadn't been eaten. Fortunately, he caught the last dying note of her chirpy voice singing a melody, his shoulders relaxing as he noted with some surprise that the door to his flat was open. Listening for any sign of danger (namely, one severely pissed off Dragon) John cautiously approached closer.

The sight that was laid out before him was something from a faerie tale.

Or maybe a horror film.

His flat was a mess. Everything that hadn't been bolted to the floor was upturned, creating a massive, wall-like fort in the corner of the living room taller than John. Like a storm had literally ripped through his kitchen, shattered pieces of dish-ware were scattered about, the chips having been swept haphazardly onto one side of the room by a certain landlady. Mrs. Hudson herself stuck her head out of the kitchen in greeting as John stood and gaped, eyes crinkling in amusement and concern when she saw the young man's face. For a moment, she watched him struggle to find his voice, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of mess that had been created in his relatively short absence.

When he finally did, John's voice came out as a sort of squeaking croak.

"What... _What happened?_"

The sound of his voice cued a low rumbling from the other side of the room, behind the couch. John quickly dropped his load of groceries, preparing himself just in time as a flash of murderous-red scales twisted themselves sinuously out from behind the barricade. John caught a glimpse of Sherlock, half-transformed and clearly furious, lunging expertly over the toppled bookshelf before he was slammed to the ground roughly on his back, the air knocked out of him as the soldier had a second of blind panic as he came face to face with slitted blue-green eyes and sharp teeth. John's eyes closed, bracing himself for some kind of attack. He had finally lost. He was going to be eaten, and poor Mrs. Hudson would have to watch, and his face would be plastered all over the news and they'd likely pic that one photo from secondary school that he absolutely _despised _and-

It took him a moment to realise that Sherlock's rather long and tactile tail, which _should _have been lashing out behind him like an angry whip, was instead curling itself about John's middle, effectively constricting him in a hug that had a grip like iron. The Dragon's hands, which should have been digging in to John's throat, were instead bunched rather tightly in his jumper, effectively stretching the collar as Sherlock's scales cooled to a determined sand-blasted gold. John looked up to find his nose inches away from the Dragon's, and his mouth fell open as a rumbling, protective growl ripped through the creature's chest, vibrating John from head-to-toe. The soldier gaped and struggled for air as all of a sudden, he was being held like he was some kind of living security blanket, the pressing weight of Sherlock's body threatening to crack his ribs as the creature's tail wound itself about tightly.

John had almost forgotten Mrs. Hudson was still in the flat, as he became rather preoccupied with the fact that the creature that had refused to even _touch _him a day ago was pressing his nose against the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent deeply. The old woman's voice was bright and chipper, yet vaguely scolding as she stepped out of the kitchen to see the sight of the two boys sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room. She waved a spatula not unlike a weapon.

"Now _Sherlock _is that any way to behave? Sorry John dear, I _did _tell him you'd be back, but the poor thing's gone into a _**Hoarding Mode **_and has been worrying himself sick. He's gotten a might better, but he's still not out of it yet."

As if to punctuate her statement, Sherlock let loose a warning snarl as John tried to shimmy his way out of the creature's grip. With those teeth so perilously close to his neck the soldier froze, slowly relaxing into the Dragon's hold even as his spine began to ache from being pinned to the floor. His mind shuffled through what he had learned from _**The Book Of Dragonology**_, trying to recall what it said to do in extremely tactile situations. He guessed it had something to do with avoiding having his throat ripped out, as it was at the forefront of his mind even as he could feel himself being slowly dragged over towards the little nest of couch and blankets and clothes Sherlock had made for himself using John's wardrobe.

Mrs. Hudson watched it all with fond amusement, eyes crinkling at the corners even as her mouth fought to keep back a smile. She didn't appear overly worried for John's safety, and he soon found out why when she explained.

"He honestly thought you weren't coming back. I'm not sure how much English he understands, but I don't think your message got through to him before you left. He _did_ eat though."

John could see that as he was rather effortlessly hoisted over the barrier of the couch, Sherlock treating him not unlike a rag doll despite his protests and kicking. The Dragon's side felt like it was made of iron when John's foot connected with it, the scales making so he didn't even make a bruise. There was an empty plate where the cake used to sit, and the Dragon kicked it aside with one foot before sitting back down and resuming his protective tail-curl around John's middle. John sighed, giving Mrs. Hudson a small, pleading look before turning to the creature beside him, who was very much in control and very much _naked_, which was awkward as John was all but sitting in Sherlock's lap. He glared up at the Dragon, attempting to be firm even when inside he was silently panicking at the creature's impossible strength.

"Look here you big scaly git, I've got some things for you and I can't reach them if you insist on crushing me to death. As much as it's nice to know that _someone _wants me home at the end of the day, it'd be nice to have all my ribs intact."

He was surprised when a rumbling voice in his head bothered to answer, the tone remarkably similar to a huff.

_**Don't be ridiculous. I am not exerting nearly enough pressure to break bone. And if I could resist my baser instincts, I would not hesitate to let you go. As it is I am mildly... Disabled at the moment...**_

"...Disabled. Right."

John murmured, rolling his eyes slightly when in response the Dragon made a small affirmative noise and continued to nose along his shoulder. The gesture was strangely intimate to John, and he found himself flushing harder than he should have been when he caught Mrs. Hudson's eye. Shaking himself out of his momentary daze, John realised that Sherlock was actually figuring out where he had been by scent when the Dragon's rumbling voice spoke into his thoughts.

_**Brimstone... Fire Dragon...Female...Another Human, Male... You've been to Tesco's and gotten milk and other essentials... and a clothing store...higher end since that's all District Three has... **_

The Dragon looked at John quizzically then, dark brows lowering in slight confusion as he looked at John with a mix of apprehension and fear. It soon melted into carefully-masked panic as Sherlock abruptly released John, standing to quickly begin pushing the couch back to its original space.

_**Please forgive me for my momentary lapse, Master. I will have this cleaned up in a moment. I apologise, please don't replace me with a fire-breather. **_

The words running along in John's head fast-descended into babbling, the noise swelling into a mixture of pleas for forgiveness and desperation before the soldier cut it off soundly with an exhalation of breath.

"_Amazing."_

Sherlock froze, half leaning against the toppled bookshelf. His scales turned from a cowering shade of grey-black to a surprised white. Like the inside of a lily, it tinged with a slow, glowing pink as the Dragon turned in confusion, looking at John like had just grown a second head instead of offering him a compliment. Sherlock's eyes were wary, on the lookout for sarcasm or deceit. His irises were wide and round, and in the light of the sun streaming through the living room window, almost clear. John; immediately worried that he had said something out of place, hastened to fix his mistake.

"Sorry, I won't compliment you if you don't like it. I didn't mean-"

_**Say it again.**_

The rumbling voice cut him off, and neither of the boys noticed Mrs. Hudson quietly excusing herself from the room. Sherlock was quivering in place, knuckles tightened about the edge of the shelf until they were bleached white, his scales an odd mix of cautious pink and worried grey. John looked at the Dragon for a moment in confusion, until slowly realisation dawned on him, and he took a gentle step forward.

"Amazing." He repeated softly, reaching out one hesitant hand as if to brush Sherlock's shoulder. The Dragon flinched initially away, but then leaned into the touch as the soldier continued.

"_Brilliant_. Has no one ever told you that before? How do you do it? It really is a fantastic..."

John's words trailed off as Sherlock continued to look at him, eyes getting wider and wider, trembling increasing exponentially until a mini-earthquake could be felt rippling through the floorboards. Before either of them really realised what was happening, John was stroking the top of Sherlock's head, fingers running through his dark curls soothingly. The Dragon didn't cling to him like before, but some of his shaking stilled. Wordlessly, Sherlock curled against the touch as if he was afraid when he opened his half-closed eyes it'd be his imagination. To John's surprise, he found the scales over Sherlock's body slowly start to recede, wings folding until they disappeared entirely. The curling horns atop the creature's head disappeared under the soldier's hands, and Sherlock's slitted eyes became rounded and Human. Right before John's eyes, he found himself staring at a man, half-starved and skinny but very much _real _and very much bruised and wounded. Though Sherlock refused to cower, he kept his eyes trained on the floor, the rules of every Slave Master that had owned him ringing in his ears that this was _wrong _that he should be punished not _rewarded. _

Only when warm hands cupped his chin, lifting it gently did the Dragon dare to meet John's gaze, and what he saw made his heart beat faster, and a strange, choking feeling claw at his throat that he had to visibly swallow to control.

"Listen to me, and listen good Sherlock." John said firmly, his gaze like starlight, bright and open and guiding.

"I know you don't know me very well, and I can hardly claim to know you. But you need to understand something about me, and I need to set some things straight. I will _never_ punish you for things you can't control. I won't _ever_ give physical or sexual punishment, and you are to _tell me _if someone _ever _tries to do so when I'm not around. You're allowed to be not okay, you're _allowed _to disagree with something and voice your opinion. You're _allowed _to argue with me, I won't mind. I won't pretend that I won't argue back, but I will _never_ hurt you for it."

John stroked his thumbs soothingly over the Dragon's prominent cheekbones, face softening from his fierce expression into something gentle and sad.

"And you can _talk_ to me, about anything you like. Talk in my head, talk out loud, whatever. I might not know what to do or how to react, and I might bollocks everything up with what I decide to do in response, but I'll listen. And I promise I won't ever force you to leave."

Sherlock's throat burned with the effort it took to stop the strange lump from conquering his composure. He was surprised that his mental projection did not waver, because it felt like he would never be steady on his feet again. He felt vulnerable, small before this Human, and so very open. Like one touch would shatter him if he did not stop it. With one blow, the Dragon knew that John Watson could very well destroy him.

_**How can I trust you? How can I trust your word? How can you expect me to?**_

John looked at him for a long time, trying to find the right words to say. He measured Sherlock's pulse under his fingers, the quivering in his naked form. He felt the uncertainty there, the need to rely on someone but the fear that came in doing so. He saw the mistrust.

In his mind he saw Molly, sobbing and clinging to Mike. He saw the girl with the flier, clutching her middle as blood pooled onto the pavement in crimson waves. He saw the kennels, the darkness of them and heard the soft whines and cries that came from behind bars.

When he spoke, his voice was solid, as unbreakable as steel. Sherlock felt as if it was shielding him, stronger than any wings could and any scaled armour.

"I'll prove it to you. One day at a time. Again and again until you _can _believe it. I'll prove it with actions, not just words."

John's gaze did not waver. Neither did his hands as they drew from Sherlock's face to rest on his shoulders gently. The Dragon realised with some surprise that the shaking that blurred everything was coming from him.

Except it wasn't the same, panicked quivering of fear when he had contemplated being alone or being sent back to the kennels.

Instead it was a different kind of shiver, one that left the Dragon feeling warm and coiled tightly like a spring, wanting suddenly to take to the air and fly and never touch the ground again and taste the clouds as they form in the early morning air. The kind of hum one got from having their wings touched by the kiss of sunrise as you coasted far above the rest of the world.

Some of Sherlock's strangely affectionate mood had worn off by the time John got the tea-tree oil ready. The soldier had known to give the Dragon some time by himself to recover slightly from the stress of earlier. While politely asking Sherlock to clean up after himself, John had soaked a cloth with the pungent-smelling liquid. When he came back to the living room, the Dragon was back to relative normal, save for one small detail.

He had chosen to remain in his Human form.

Sherlock's skinny body sat patiently cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, seemingly at ease with both his nudity and with John at the moment as he looked about the flat with restless curiosity. Those cool, colourful eyes seemed to reflect the shades of his moods as much as his scales in a way, shifting from cloudy grey to curious turquoise upon John's return. The Dragon inhaled deeply, nose crinkling in distaste as he caught a whiff of the strong oil-soaked rag. John couldn't suppress the chuckle that left his throat as like a petulant toddler, the Dragon scooted away from him and crossed his arms over his bare chest.

"Come on now, it must hurt at least a little bit. I promise after this you can have some of the sweets Mrs. Hudson left in the oven."

Sherlock huffed, eyes narrowing at being treated like a Hatchling even as his brow twitched with interest. John was rapidly discovering that though his Dragon liked to hide it, he had a massive sweet-tooth. The soldier wrapped the cloth around his hand a few times until it made a sort of glove, coming forward until he could kneel in front of Sherlock. The Dragon's voice rumbled in his head, irritable but at least willing enough to communicate.

_**Looks Cold. Smells foul.**_

John smiled crookedly.

"But you want to eventually get to fly again, don't you?"

He could feel the silent agreement with his statement, despite its reluctance. Sherlock sighed, hands falling into his lap before he turned around agreeably, exposing his back for access. The Dragon's voice was flat but submissive.

_**Very well. If this is the only way to get you to leave me be. You may help.**_

"Someone's got an attitude don't they?" John murmured, but got to work quickly. Once again faced with the sluggishly bleeding infection, the soldier found himself thinking that he had gotten to it just in time. It looked slightly red and inflamed, and John figured a bath would be in order again tonight before the two of them went to bed. Trying to be gentle and mind the various cuts and scars over the creature's spine, he pressed the cloth against the wound. The reaction was immediate.

A roar let loose from Sherlock, and the Dragon reared away from John's hand, curling closer into himself and cutting off the snarl as he bit his lip hard enough for him to taste blood. The soldier was immediately there, apologising profusely, stroking Sherlock's back. The wound throbbed with Sherlock's heartbeat, washing the creature's vision with red for a second before he could control himself. It felt like he had been prodded with the hot end of a curling iron.

However, after a second, the sharp pain became a dull throb, and finally a slow tingling sensation of relief. Sherlock felt with some surprise muscles he had long forgotten about begin to loosen, creating relief along his back as the oil did its job and killed off the bacteria in the wound. Heaving a small sigh of relief, the Dragon relaxed, eyelids fluttering closed as he rolled his shoulder experimentally.

After a second, he spoke, cutting into John's panicked thoughts.

_**Again. I'm okay now. Again.**_

"You sure?" The soldier asked, reaching out again when Sherlock nodded. The sting still hurt, but it faded more quickly than before. Soon Sherlock was purring slightly, the sharp smell doing a number on his senses but the sensation of relief heady and wonderful. Encouraged, John began to rub the treatment in more deeply, fingers splaying as the Dragon continued to make sounds that should sound small and kittenish and instead came out as powerful and overjoyed. John marvelled silently the range of noises Sherlock could make, the smallest inflection of a growl completely changing the mood of the noise.

Before long, Sherlock's head was all but leaning against John's chest, the creature's muscles apparently having gone to jelly in an instant. Like a giant cat, Sherlock seemed to have tendency to be tactile while affectionate and relaxed and aloof and manic at any other time. John's observations were shown to be correct when he finally murmured

"That should be good. I'll have to do it again tomorrow morning, but overall your back looks like it'll heal up nicely. I got a few other things for you, if you'd like to see them."

Like an overly-excited child desperately trying to remain cool, Sherlock nodded with forced nonchalance.

_**That would be agreeable. **_

John helped the Dragon to his feet before standing as well to go hunting for the bag of clothes. He brought the plastic bag over to the creature with a small smile, one that grew progressively wider when Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief.

_**You bought... those for me?**_

"Well, can't have you getting arrested for public indecency. Wasn't sure what you'd like, so I just bought what I thought would work for you... guessed at your sizes, so things might be too big or too small... Used the military budget so it wasn't like it cost me anything...Here." John thrust the bag towards him, suddenly rather embarrassed for no real reason. After a moment, Sherlock reached to rifle through its contents, limbs quivering with suppressed interest.

It wasn't long before John realised the shy, tentative smile on the creature's face was the source of the swelling happiness in his own chest. Sherlock was rather like a small child for a few minutes, trying on various types of clothing and tossing aside those that didn't fit or he didn't like. Things that he did like or did fit him he'd run his cheek against, feeling the texture in disbelief before folding it gently and placing it by his feet. Soon, the Dragon had acquired quite a pile, and John soon saw that Sherlock had good taste. The soldier found himself staring at an entirely different figure than he was used to seeing.

Sherlock had chosen dark colours, things that reflected against his pale skin and made it seem downright translucent. A pair of dark black trousers, tucking in a shirt that was a deep plum purple, the colour of an African Violet. Over that ensemble, he had chosen a charcoal belstaff coat that trailed to his knees, and a deep blue scarf that made his eyes seem to glow.

Like John had been hoping, it covered the Dragon's collar perfectly.

Sherlock looked at him uncertainly, shuffling shyly from foot to foot as he was suddenly overcome with a bout of self-consciousness. Trying not to let it show, the Dragon spoke rather gruffly in John's mind.

_**It's been a while since I've interacted with Humans, but I did try to pick something that wouldn't make me stand out too much... Is it to your satisfaction?**_

John was busily trying to figure out a way to close his mouth so he could recover enough to respond. When he finally did, his breath came out in a rush.

"With a hair-cut Sherlock, I can honestly say that _no one _will be able to find a complaint."

The Dragon beamed proudly.


	12. Rune Mark

**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

_**Rune Marks (Magic): **__A Rune Mark is a special kind of spell that any fully-grown Dragon can employ. Not unlike a tracking device, it is often used between mother and Hatchling in order to make it easier for the Dragon to keep their young safe. It allows the Dragon to 'sense' where the person who possesses the Rune Mark is, the strength of the Mark growing as the Bond between the two subjects increases. Each Dragon's Rune Mark is unique, and can only be tracked by the Dragon who first cast the Spell (see page 66C for other kinds of Magic that is personalized). Though it may be weak at first, the Rune Mark's size and power will increase the more the two subjects come to rely on each other. Dragons will occasionally put a Rune on a trusted Human of choice, although the occurrence is relatively uncommon. It is generally seen as a sign of implicit trust, as the person who bears the Rune will effectively be connected to the Dragon so long as the Rune is in place. Whatever pain the subject may feel will also be transferred to the Dragon who cast the spell, as well as other extreme emotions, such as high anxiety or sadness. The stronger the Bond, the more emotions will leak through the link between the two. _

* * *

Over the span of a few weeks, A strange and tentative trust formed between Man and Dragon. It wasn't perfect -far from it- but it was far more than either John or Sherlock had before, and the two quietly welcomed it into their lives with as little chafing as was possible.

The first step towards this was slowly bringing Sherlock to getting used to sleeping in _**221 B. **_John soon discovered as the Dragon rapidly recovered his health that the creature had a seemingly boundless amount of energy, and would often spend long hours into the night merely pacing or picking his way deftly through John's collection of paperbacks. Though Sherlock at first couldn't read very much English, it soon became evident that the Dragon was merely ignorant, as opposed to stupid.

Though the Dragon had at first been hesitant to move from the room downstairs (after all he had claimed it as "His" and it would not do for just anyone to come and take his space away) John had offered him the room on the main floor, the promise of a warm bed (all for _himself_, now that was a treat Sherlock couldn't refuse) and a nice window view. All of this let the Dragon quickly get over his reservations. He soon tentatively began making the room his own, although John forbid the whole Marking ritual, much to the Dragon's sulking chagrin.

Instead, Sherlock made do by filling the small area with things that he could claim as his own. He liked to have his clothes scattered about the floor, his own scent permeating the room with them, mingled with a few of John's jumpers when he was in a good mood. When he wasn't those jumpers were often tossed down the hall angrily. Sherlock began writing pages upon pages in his own language, formulas and Spells tacked to the walls for later analysis. Strangely enough, John noticed the Dragon was spartan-like in the organisation of his sock-index.

Sherlock also proved to be incredibly clever, as well as surprisingly devious.

Once given the opportunity, Sherlock's brain absorbed information like a highly effective sponge. His mind connected the dots together faster than anyone John had ever seen, man or beast included. What's more, the Dragon seemed to effortlessly be able to make predictions based on knowledge previously learned. John woke in the morning a few days after he had given Sherlock the manual guide to most of the electronics in the house to find that new and different CD's played in the speaker's as he got up, Sherlock having rooted through his small collection and selected a fair few he deemed acceptable. Also, he soon learned that though the Dragon's English vocabulary was evidently increasing in size, (judging from the slow and gradual shift from picture books to chapter books to texts) Sherlock refused to speak to John in any way other than telepathically.

In fact, John quickly learned to take it as a warning sign that something was off if Sherlock made a sound at all.

He was at times, deathly quiet. He slunk about John with a skittish sort of grace, just at the corner of the soldier's eyes. Incredibly agile and flexible, John sometimes found the Dragon went ridiculous lengths to avoid being in his direct line of sight, a common sulking place being atop the refrigerator, where the Dragon's impossibly long tail would curl and uncurl about the cool handle.

The only time the soldier heard Sherlock be vocal other than for the occasional snarl or huff of grudging interest, John had been woken to a loud crashing of a thousand pieces of glass falling all over the floor. Within moments he was on his feet, cinching the belt to his robe as he ran down the stairs to find a sight that was at once shocking as it was strange.

Sherlock stood in the centre of the living room shaking, his eyes wild and wide as he took in the shattered vase he had accidentally tipped over with his tail. The scattered pieces lay about his bare feet haphazardly, shards powdered with the sheer force of the appendage's assault. John could tell the vase had literally been whipped towards the wall, the trajectory of the shards all in one general direction. However he didn't have much time to absorb all this as a low, keening noise that could be felt through the floorboards rumbled from Sherlock's throat.

In the next instant, the Dragon had curled himself protectively away from John, wings flared and defensive green-gold, a blazing banner to mask the fear in the creature's eyes. John could see some of the Human form that Sherlock had kept to lately fade as scales over took more of his skin, and a low, threatening growl that didn't sound nearly as sure as it should be emerged from his peeled lips. John was surprised when a rippling, melodic language came from the creature's lips, repeating itself over and over again until something clicked, and Sherlock switched to English for the first time. Though his accent was as broken as a badly-strung guitar, John could understand him.

He'd have understood the tone of someone pleading for mercy, even if he was half-mad and blind.

"S-sorry. Sorry. Not. Fault. Accident. Not-" A small, clicking sound of exasperation came from Sherlock's lips as he couldn't find the right words quick enough, his panic seeming to have cut off the easy mental communication they had kept up now for a few days. Seeming to grow frustrated with John's lack of action and his own incompetence, the Dragon abruptly resorted to the only tactic that had always worked before, kneeling in the pile of glass and cowering.

John gasped as the creature folded at the knees, wincing as he could see shards digging into Sherlock's skin, creating vivid paths of blood. His first instinct was to wrench the Dragon to his feet, demand _what in the seven hells was wrong with him _and treat the cuts. However when John stepped forward, (cautiously trying to avoid getting glass pieces on the soles of his feet) the creature shuddered bodily and seemed to shrink away. He paused, carefully reconsidering his knee-jerk reaction and instead crouching delicately on the floor, keeping a safe distance away from where the Dragon knelt, hands clasped behind his back. John noted that Sherlock's posture was a vulnerable position, not one someone who felt threatened would normally take. He knelt with his hands clutching each other behind his waist, dark curls bowed as if expecting blows to befall him at any moment. Though his wings were out they were flared instead of protective, expecting pain but not willing to fight back. The realisation that this was a posture that had been trained into Sherlock, and not a natural response (even if that thought was equally disturbing) made John grit his teeth as anger spiked through his system.

He kept his hands gentle and feather-light as they reached out for the Dragon, pausing an inch from those dark curls before they carefully plucked a piece of glass from their snarls. John watched as Sherlock hardly dared to breathe, the keening noise stuttering slightly as he felt no onslaught of pain. Glancing in slight confusion up at his Master through his lashes, he saw how John rather calmly took to pushing the blunter pieces of glass into a pile, moving them so he could get closer to the Dragon. Sherlock found he had unconsciously backed himself into a wall and whined, but John didn't crowd him. Instead, he kept carefully just outside of Sherlock's bubble, rising to clear away glass and even leaving for a moment to grab shoes and a broom. All the while the Dragon remained immobile, frozen between confusion and the instinctive thrum in his gut that insisted he fear.

His memories and past experiences told him to try and remedy the situation as much as possible by being docile and obedient, and yet every muscle in him also screamed to attack. Caught between the two, Sherlock did not see John clearly when he looked at him, instead, he saw a very different face. One that he'd sooner rather forget. He expected rough fingers to tug his head forward, searching hands to pull off the clothes so generously given to him, and growling commands hissed in his ear.

Instead, true to John's earlier promise, he was carefully approached, asked for consent before he was even touched, and then only to be moved, nothing more. John's hands were calloused but steady, Sherlock noticed, and they were warm where they lingered for a moment on his skin. They did not drift anywhere, did not search save for injury or damage. The soldier took stock of Sherlock's knees after he had managed to coax the borderline catatonic Dragon over to the chair, wincing at a particularly deep gash across his shin.

"That might need more than a band-aid."

He muttered to himself, and was surprised when the Dragon responded with a small and quiet

"Sorry." Under his breath. His voice was cracked and raspy, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken in a very long time. John was privately impressed with the creature's language skills, but saddened by the fact that begging was the first time the Dragon had bothered to speak to him. Crouching in front of Sherlock and grabbing his medical kit, he rolled up the trouser leg of the Dragon's clothes, dabbing at the smaller cuts with hydrogen peroxide. Sherlock hissed at the sting slightly, but offered no other complaint.

John's voice was calm and steady.

"It's okay. I just want to know what spooked you. I don't mind, it was an accident and I saw that. You're not in trouble." The soldier felt rather than saw some of the tension leave the Dragon's spine at his reassurances. Though at first Sherlock was reluctant to reveal what had frightened him, he soon realised that John was not about to let him escape. Though his gaze kept flicking towards his new room, the soldier carefully blocked his exit, being at once solid and yet non-threatening. It was obvious that John wasn't about to let Sherlock slink away, and twitching slightly, the Dragon looked at his knees where white plasters now greeted him. His voice was small. He hated himself for being so afraid.

_**I figured it out.**_

"Figured what out?" John's brow furrowed, but he paused to listen and heard the radio, still playing through the flat. Not music, but words drifted from its speakers, an old mystery audio tape. Some kind of slash thriller. A woman's very fake screams radiated from it, followed by cheesily eerie music. Realisation hit John, and he broke into a small smile as he looked to Sherlock and grinned.

"You mean... You guessed the murderer?"

The Dragon nodded emphatically, some of the worry leaving his eyes as he straightened. Those dark curls bobbed slightly as pale fingers moved to emphasize Sherlock's deductions that came to John's thoughts like a babbling brook unleashed. With his excitement his tail began to swish, twitching at the tip and _wagging _with his interest. John realised that must have been why the vase had gotten knocked over. He could _feel _the deadly force in that movement even from where he sat.

_**It's obvious, really. It's the husband, not the servant. They explain early on that each of the servant's are mute, their tongues having been cut out, and it is shown by the way the Dragon speaks only to the detective when no one else is about because he's a thrall. Though the servant has motive given the fact that the wife bought him from slavery and tore him from his mother as a Hatchling, he lacks innovation. He's uneducated, and would not be able to leave notes with elaborate riddles on them if he can barely spell. Really. As well the husband's motivation for murder is far more plausible, given the fact that the woman has been sleeping with his business associate now for nearly a year, and the husband only just found out the night before the murder. You can tell by the voice acting too, the actors are stilted, and they gave the husband a horribly fake accent that's stereotypically evil-sounding. Really, textbook.**_

Then Sherlock fell silent, a suspicious expression crossing his features as he didn't see John's face turn dark or glowering. Instead, all he felt was slight disbelief and awe come from the soldier, and in a cautious tone the Dragon asked

_**Is... Am I right?**_

John laughed, tossing his head back and sitting on the floor. Sherlock looked at him like he was half-mad, wing-tips tingeing a confused, mottled shade of calico before the soldier got the breath to reply.

"You... you're _amazing, _do you know that? The tape's only on the _second _chapter and you've already got it all figured out..."

The Dragon's chest momentarily swelled with shy pride, scales simmering to a slightly smug dark blue before turning grey with worry.

_**I've always... observed things. It's something I'm good at... But most people don't usually think it's all that amazing... It's not what they usually say. I got overly excited, as you can see...**_

Then the Dragon's head ducked down, hands curling in his lap, his wings curving as if to hide him from some unseen anger. The rhythmic thumping of his tail died away, the appendage curling itself about one leg protectively. John's grin faded, noticing how small and fragile the Dragon looked without the usual spark of defiance in his cool eyes. Moving slowly, John seated himself on the other side of the couch, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he gently asked

"What do they usually say?"

Sherlock's thoughts were low, tinged with black humour. He bared his teeth slightly in distaste as he murmured to the knuckles of his hands. Still, John felt he picked the least volatile of the insults he had been handed over his life.

_**Piss off.**_

Though it was delivered as a joke, neither man nor beast really found themselves laughing.

Instead, John looked hard at Sherlock, blue eyes flicking over the skinny form that was still too thin even after all the food he had been eating lately, glossing over the scars that he could still see in the holes he had made for the Dragon in the back of his shirt. He did not see weakness. Rather, he saw a fierce resilience. Something unshakable and aloof from the rest of the world, happening to lower itself right before his eyes. In that moment, he saw some of the usual cold mask slip from the Dragon's features, mellow into something more malleable and soft. Though it was still an icy expression that Sherlock returned his gaze with, it lacked the sharpened edge it held before. Now it asked for comfort, although grudgingly, and John found himself wanting to give it. He wanted to reach out, pull the Dragon out of his own memories, out of his own mind and warm that dead expression off of his face. The broken look of hopelessness.

Because Sherlock could not afford to be hopeless, not when they were already preparing to go into a battle. If he remained this way, there was little doubt in John's mind that the Dragon would die in that desert. He'd let himself get shot, or kidnapped, or burned at a stake, and that was unacceptable.

To John, Sherlock's life was _necessary. _He wasn't exactly sure when it became so, but it was. Vehemently so. Somehow, the scaly git had managed to worm his way past John's usual armor. The protection he had developed over the years, the one that kept him from helping Harry again and again when she begged him to save her from her own mistakes, the one that had made him stand firm and refuse to go to his Father's funeral. Somehow, the Dragon had managed to waltz through every fence, curling himself next to the warmth in John's chest. He wasn't even totally sure he could _trust _Sherlock to protect him in a battlefield, because he couldn't even guarantee the Dragon would be willing to protect _himself._

And in a war where they were to be facing rebels that could turn into two-tonne scaled beasts of horror, that should be something that worried John. A lot.

And yet, he couldn't help but glow over the fact that somehow, he had managed to find a place in a creature's heart that owed him nothing. That Sherlock could have chosen to just eat him, and John would never stop being thankful that he had decided against it.

And evidently, Sherlock wasn't even aware.

John promised himself then that he'd make Sherlock aware of it, if only by pulling the Dragon's lanky form so that his head rested on the soldier's shoulder. Sherlock's eyes were cat-like and wide as they peered up at John questioningly, but he didn't give justification for his action of comfort. Soon, Sherlock stopped searching for one. The Dragon felt his eyes slide closed as those capable, strong hands delicately ran through his curls, scratching just at the base of his horns in such a way that was positively sinful and wonderful at the same time. Finally satisfied that he wasn't in trouble, Sherlock allowed himself to relax into the touch, melting bonelessly towards the comfort like a moth pulled to a flame. Little sparks flashed behind his eyes, electrical pinpoints as John's hands worked his dark hair into some semblance of order, and if the soldier noticed how Sherlock's tail automatically curled possessively about his waist, he chose not to say anything.

Sherlock's wings stretched to engulf the both of them, shielding John in an ever-changing forcefield that melted from blue to green to darkest violet. It was lovely and strange, and he longed to reach out and touch.

He didn't dare.

Not yet.

Not when Sherlock seemed so fragile and small, not unlike a monster but more like a very young child, alone and afraid.

The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in that way, ignoring the pile of glass. They might have spent the evening as well, if John hadn't insisted on getting some food into the Dragon. Before the soldier could stand, Sherlock grabbed his wrist possessively, looking at him with deep, shifting eyes. A tingling rushed over the soldier's spine, bubbling up his veins and through the crook of his elbow to spread to the rest of his body. It was not unlike being exposed to a ray of sunlight, the sensation slowly warming until it nearly burned to the touch. He gasped, and in the moment he did Sherlock uttered something in Dragon-Tongue, the words eerie and chanting and quick. Like a butterfly's breath.

_"Etcha. Protcheva. Novest itch Xiao seich." _

In his head, the soldier heard the translation.

_**Guard. Keep safe. No harm to come to what is mine. **_

When John finally managed to pull his wrist away, there was a mark, a twisting Rune overlapping delicately about his skin. It circled about his arm, glowing a faint blue before dimming to black. Small, but intricately designed. It looked incomplete, but promised to be beautiful when whole. Hexagonal in nature, two or three patterns traced up his arm. Plain black, one with swirling designs that looped over each other, another as delicate as a snowflake. When he looked at Sherlock questioningly, the Dragon's eyes glowed with the same light. Blinking, the Dragon's only explanation left mysteries surrounding John's thoughts.

_**I'll prove you can trust me the only way I know how... Through actions instead of words.**_

At the beginning of the last week, Dodge phoned John to let him know that he had a day to get Sherlock used to the idea of her bringing Cerioth over for the equivalent of a 'play-date'.

"Standard procedure." She had sighed over the phone, the tone of her voice tired and edged slightly.

"They want to make sure he won't go all kamikaze on the first Dragon he sees. After all he's a Red-Card, and you guys will have to work as a team with other pairs on the field."

In retrospect, John understood the logic. Still, he felt a surge of annoyance and exasperation at the government, or specifically whoever had come up with the outlines to join the military.

The fact was, he was fairly certain this would not go over well.

It worried him.

Because Sherlock was many things, brilliant, aloof and yet strangely affectionate at times, calculating, thoughtful, but above all, Sherlock was _possessive _of things he viewed as _his._

Like a true Dragon, it had been shown to John over time that his Draconian flatmate wasn't one to share.

Sherlock was inherently protective, to the point where John found the strangest of things squirreled away in supposedly 'safer' locations. The Dragon's blue scarf was often tucked under Sherlock's pillow at night, along with a midnight snack (as the Dragon had odd eating habits and frequently decided an apple would be nice at one in the morning) and his notebooks full of scrawl. John's favourite tea mug went missing from the dishwasher, only for the soldier to find it later hidden inside the skull. A collection of mold cultures Sherlock made himself by spoiling the milk were lovingly hidden in the bathtub for John to find later on, and every single book in the house was treated like it was heavenly, stacked in Sherlock's bed to resemble a nest of literature.

Inviting someone into the flat could prove dangerous, given the fact that Sherlock did not trust anyone as of yet besides John and Mrs. Hudson. At one point the young Dragon from next door had brought their post, the postman having put it into the wrong box, and John had found himself tackled to the ground by a snarling Dragon of the North, protected by Sherlock's impenetrable scaly stomach as Sherlock all but threatened to murder the poor servant where he stood. The Dragon, skittish and small, had taken off running back to their Master, tail tucked between their legs.

Sherlock had been quite proud of himself for scaring away the intruder, until John had scolded it for him later.

Then, he had only been mildly repentant.

Sighing to himself, John squared his shoulders.

A day.

He had a day to get Sherlock to accept it.

It wouldn't be so hard, right?

Somehow, as he looked at the mess his flat had become in only a few weeks, the soldier couldn't bring himself to be so sure.


	13. We Only Do What We Must

**There we go! Next chapter up! :3 I'm so glad once again for all the lovely reviews and kind words!**

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**Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.**

**Chinese Dragons (Species): **_Chinese Dragons are the second-oldest of the Dragon species, and most likely appeared sometime around the late Ming Dynasty era. Their ancestors originate from all over Asia, although China to this day holds the largest population of the species (hence the name). The Chinese Dragons differentiate from their cousins the Northern and English Dragons in their small, compact forms. In Human form, it is common for a male to only be around five foot seven to barely touching six feet. The females will on average be anywhere from four eleven to five foot five. However their Draconic forms are extremely long and slender. Bearing a snake-like figure, the Chinese Dragon was once largely worshipped by humans in medieval ages, seen as a sign of good luck. There are still many pieces of ancient art today in Asia that depict them. They are the most common type of Dragon, and are a species designed for speed, swimming, and warm weather. (See page 78 part G for details on weather and Dragons.) The Chinese Dragons are well known for their remarkable capabilities of seeing the truth in matters, their magic tending to be rooted in deep honesty and clarity of the mind. Beware though: Chinese Dragons, although small and relatively more fragile than their other cousins, can boil water they collect in a separate pouch inside their bodies and spit it upon their enemies. The temperature of this water can easily exceed 150 degrees Celsius. _

Cerioth was a Chinese Dragon, and as a result he was at once both small in stature and graceful, delicate in appearance. Yet as John welcomed the servant at his front door, who bowed low once in greeting, he got the distinct impression that if given permission the creature would have no qualms about snapping his neck. He was not tall, not even by John's standards, but he held himself with a quiet elegance, a stillness that contrasted sharply with Lieutenant Dodge's entrance.

Dodge was all hard edges and solid confidence, a strength that was always on display. Her shoulders remained ramrod straight, and she held herself in such a way to appear taller than she was. She nodded sharply at John by way of greeting, short mahogany hair dipping as she was ushered into the flat. Her boots thunked solidly on the floor. What she saw was, admittedly, better than she had been expecting.

The place was tidy, cleared of any obvious debris and organised, with objects stacked together on the tables and shelves. Not a book was out of place but the overall effect was not so clean as to be staged. (What she didn't know was that John stayed up late into the night, cleaning desperately). Late morning sunlight streamed lazily through the window, making the polished wood floor gleam a rich red with a warm tone.

Sherlock by design, was nowhere in sight.

John had spent the entirety of yesterday trying to explain to the Dragon what was expected of him at this "meeting" of sorts. Or rather, he had attempted to explain even as Sherlock appeared hell-bent on deliberately ignoring his heed for caution. His thoughts had been sharp and acidic as he sat sprawled on the sofa, hands folded under his chin in a strangely mimicry of prayer as his thoughts nearly whip-lashed out at John.

_**I will not be treated as if I am a show horse. I am a Dragon, and though I've been captured I still have some pride.**_

It was clear that Sherlock was becoming more comfortable speaking his mind. At least, within the silent confines of John's thoughts. Aloud Sherlock still demanded nothing, and as he regained his strength his eating and sleeping habits dwindled considerably. It concerned John somewhat, especially since the one time John caught Sherlock sleeping of his own volition (or exhaustion) he witnessed the Dragon was prone to nightmares. The creature's wings had flashed mottled shades of grey and sickly green, small whimpers coming from his lips as he writhed in his bed and thrashed in the sheets. John didn't dare wake him lest he was mistaken for an enemy, but distinctly heard broken pleading in Dragon-Tongue, and often Sherlock's body contorted as if he were being struck. Misty fog streamed from Sherlock's parted lips and flared nostrils, cooling the room to a freezer, yet John hadn't been able to tear himself away, even for a moment to fetch a warmer jumper.

In the morning, Sherlock either didn't remember or didn't care to bring it up. Certainly, he appeared neither weak nor vulnerable in declaring his thoughts on meeting with Dodge.

_**They will try to turn you against me. I will not have it! You are the least boring Master I've had and I will not be sold off like a common street cow.**_

John didn't bother to hide his eye roll, depite the fact he inwardly revelled and despaired that Sherlock was growing bolder. He seated himself on the couch, pushing the Dragon to make room for him even as he checked over Sherlock's wings by demanding he unbutton his shirt. There was barely any sign of the infection; it was healing well, a shining scar the only indication there had been something wrong in the first place. The scar was vivid on Sherlock's alabaster skin, but then John would prefer to see marks that were the result of healing instead of punishment. Humming to himself in satisfaction, the young doctor replied snappily:

"You'll behave yourself and like it or we'll both be castrated. Dodge isn't someone to fuck around with, she means business. I'm not going to abandon you, so you're stuck with me and you'll have to tough it out. If she thinks for even a second that I'm not serious about looking after you and fighting in the war she'll have me sent home and you'll be sent..."

John cut off then, throat suddenly tight as he refused to think further. As if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, the Dragon quietly replied

_**Foolish... As yet you're the only Human I've met who's bothered to care...You'll have to order me if you want me to leave...**_

And in a rare gesture of faith, Sherlock leaned his head against John's shoulder, nuzzling his curled head against the man's neck and inhaling his scent greedily.

Softening, the army doctor let him rest there for the afternoon even as he read more of the mysterious book he had been gifted. Privately, he sent a thought of his own towards the scaly creature.

_I'll never order you unless I absolutely can't help it... Not if I can't ask you instead..._

Sherlock didn't reply, but simply nestled closer, prehensile tail twisting protectively around the Rune Mark that had just barely begun to inch up John's arm.

Though John truly believed after that point that Sherlock would try his best, he still asked the Dragon to stay in his room until called. The Dragon had grumbled, but didn't put up much of a fight. With the click of the lock sliding home, John hastily made a pot of tea, setting it in the living room so that it could be accessed easily as a way to stall. Much of this would be bluffing, and so the young soldier made sure to keep as many options open as possible. When Dodge and Cerioth had arrived in what seemed at once both an eternity and an instant after, he ushered them inside and offered them something to drink. Both being painstakingly British and neither wanting to seem impolite, John and Dodge seated themselves across from one another, not saying much as they nursed their cups and stared at into the other's eyes unflinchingly. A silence stretched between them as Cerioth took the customary place of a Dragon, kneeling on the floor by Dodge's side. John itched to haul the small creature to his feet. Instead his fingers tightened impotently about the handle of his mug. Tentative of his welcome, he reached out with his mental Thrall to address the slave.

_Hello. Nice to see you again._

Cerioth's dark eyes widened as he shot a look up from under his lashes, a slightly perplexed and mollified expression on his face before his gaze slid back to the floor. After a moment, John felt the somewhat delicate brush of a stranger's voice on the edge of his mind.

_**It is generally considered rude, Sir, to speak to the help before addressing their Master. Be glad that my Mistress is no Thrall.**_

_Does she hurt you? If you're impolite?_

_**She is not excessive in her punishments. Mistress only does what she must.**_

Cerioth's voice came across as clinical. Detached and curt. John got the distinct feeling he was standing in front a mirror with no reflection. A sheet of glass that was steel grey and fogged. Revealing nothing.

_What must she do? Is she expected to hurt you?_

John asked before he could help himself, yet got no answer. The Dragon looked pointedly towards Dodge, silently encouraging John to use his manners instead of replying. After a moment, the soldier gave up.

Aloud, he spoke.

"You'll have to forgive Sherlock, he's a bit of a late sleeper. I didn't want to wake him, since he's still healing. He's been eating more, think he might actually gain some muscle if he continues getting regular meals into him."

"Name's Sherlock? Interesting, in English that's fair-haired, isn't it? May have been the dirt, but I could've sworn his hair was as black as night."

Dodge spoke in light, easy tones, although there was always an undercurrent of command about her. Years of being on duty had shed all meekness she once possessed; a woman who often held a gun in her hands didn't flinch when confronted with a chance to take control of a situation. Instead she leaned forward, eyes bright and strong. If it weren't for the professional way in which she addressed the issues, John might have thought she genuinely cared about Sherlock's welfare.

"He doesn't seem to have any mental problems? Anything besides the aggression and protective tendencies? Are his wings functional? Everything checking out like it should? He's not unnecessarily confrontational or weak in stamina?"

John found his reply was somewhat cool, despite the fact he didn't dislike his commanding officer. Something about her just rubbed him the wrong way.

"He's as sane as any man can be when confronted with a mandatory drafting. As for his wings, one was infected with a mild rash, but it's mostly cleared up now. He's been doing a lot better with his protective tendencies." The last part was a bit of a white lie, or rather an exaggeration, but John let it slip past his lips without thinking. It was better this way, so long as everything went smoothly. John could continue to work with Sherlock on his aggression, and by the time they were called to duty they would be at that point. For now though, the Dragon was still slightly unstable. He couldn't let Dodge become aware of this. She'd haul his ass right down to headquarters and have them tranquillise Sherlock.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Dodge nodded thoughtfully. She sipped her tea before folding her hands in her lap. She wore her army uniform, John noticed. Must have just been off on training somewhere then. Her voice was terse.

"I need you to be honest with me here John. As honest as you think you can be. Do you feel you can trust him? Your Dragon? Because if you can't, then you will find the training in Afghanistan to be extremely... challenging."

She looked up at him, one eye half-hidden by her fringe, and John stared at his cup in contemplation. His blue irises focused in silent thought. Could he trust Sherlock?

The immediate answer came straight from his gut, an instinct more than fact. Want more than reason.

Yes, I trust him.

Yet his mind cautioned him, so that he responded more slowly as not to appear too hasty in his choice.

"I'd trust him with my life. He's the sort of creature that's very much all or nothing in nature, and it seems he's decided I'm lucky enough to be considered an ally. He'd protect me, and I'd protect him."

He looked at his superior, the set of his mouth honest and unyielding. His shoulders were an unwavering line. Steady.

Dodge blinked at the force behind the young man's words. Then her gaze softened. She set down her cup with a gentle tap, looking up. Her features rearranged themselves back into blank stone as she looked hard at John.

Her voice was cutting.

"But can you get him to trust others at this stage?"

And then John stared down at his hands and swallowed, because he could not answer that one honestly. The words caught up in his throat, knowing the Dragon's true nature. It felt like his chest was sticky on the inside with them, their cloying deceit seeping into his lungs like brackish fluid.

He hoped that Sherlock hadn't heard the hesitation in his answer.

Which was why it came as a surprise when Lieutenant Dodge stood abruptly, her gaze held somewhere above his head. John's heart leapt as she stepped past him, assessing a kneeling figure he hadn't noticed come down the stairs. Sherlock crouched in his best clothes on the floor, a simple suit with a white undershirt, completely Human and appearing harmless. A shadow in the hollow of the stairwell. His collar gleamed about his throat, scarf conspicuously absent, head bowed towards the floor in the perfect semblance of submission. John felt his blood freeze in silent panic even as he looked on at what appeared to be a bizarre twilight zone.

His superior officer's voice was high and slightly surprised, edged with faint suspicion as she came to stand over Sherlock and inspect him. John was suddenly vitally glad he'd managed to trim Sherlock's messy black curls into some pretence of order the other night. He tugged on his sleeve, further trying to hide the strange tattoo that stained his wrist. An absent gesture. He could not tear his gaze away from the Dragon's still form.

"Well this is a fair change." Dodge commented wryly as she stood over the Dragon crouching before her, seemingly impressed by his stillness and good behaviour.

"I have to admit John, I had some doubts..."

John grit his teeth and braced himself for an explosion when Dodge promptly snapped her fingers, uttering a military-like command. Testing John's honesty.

"Up. Let's have a look at you."

The soldier relaxed minutely when Sherlock complied without complaint, rising gracefully to his feet. Sherlock's eyes stayed trained on the floor the entire time. The model of compliance.

But on the floor, Cerioth tensed. His dark eyes narrowed into slits and the muscles in his arms flexed almost imperceptibly, and John soon saw why.

Sherlock's tail had appeared, swishing cat-like and lazy behind him as he rose to his feet. The back and forth pendulum of rhythm betrayed his nerves, hidden under a mask of cold steel. His blue eyes were carefully blank, stance relaxed, but the appendage behind him twisted and curled with defiance. It wound around one of Sherlock's legs like a serpent as the Dragon stood at attention, barely quivering as Dodge reached out to tilt his head clinically towards the light. It caught the colour of his eyes, chips of ice in shadow. They did not look at John once.

Her eyes were sharp as they swept over the line of his jaw.

"His nose's been broken before, but looks like he was fairly young. Shouldn't cause any kind of problems. Does his dental work need anything? There's a free program..."

It took John a moment to realise that Dodge was addressing him as opposed to Sherlock, his superior not caring to look the Dragon in the eye as she continued her inspection. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, counting to five before letting it go and responding. John had to remind himself that this was her job, and that Dodge didn't mean any offence in the way she so casually handled Sherlock. She may as well have been inspecting a sack of flour. Her hands were cold and impersonal as she felt along the Dragon's scapulae, resting along the intersection where flesh morphed into wing. Her expression remained indiscernable as she pressed through the silky material of his suit. After a moment or two, during which she picked at the slits that John had made for Sherlock in the back of his clothes, with a small smirk ordered crisply

"Wings. Out where I can see them."

Like a coiled spring, Sherlock complied. Yet his irises constricted, and John saw how they turned to sharpened slits. He swallowed, shifting as if to somehow discourage Dodge from probing further, but a hand in front of him halted his progression. Cerioth's fingers were slender as they splayed outwards, still they held strength in them as the slave looked up at John, brows furrowed in warning. It was an extremely abrasive gesture for one normally so complacent, and John found himself disconcerted by the Dragon's voiceless worry.

A low, rumbling growl filled the flat, and John looked up to see Sherlock staring at the point of connection between John and the intruder to his home. The young soldier's eyes widened as Dodge froze at the sound, a quizzical expression on her face as she looked behind her, taking in what had lead to Sherlock's sudden vocalisation. Her voice was dry as she looked at John.

"Might have exaggerated a little bit about his progress, didn't you now soldier?"

John stayed where he was, back ramrod straight, even though every part of him wanted to pull Sherlock away, drag him up the stairs before he did something they'd both regret. He bore silent holes into the Dragon's skin with his eyes, radiating his displeasure at having not only been directly ignored but at how the lanky git was acting. Two parts pleading and two parts irritated. Although the soldier couldn't blame him; the more childish side of John wanted these strangers gone too.

"Sherlock can tell you he's a lot better than he was before. I mean, you saw how he was back -" He cut off, clenched his fists. John did not want to mention that bloody kennel again, and instead quickly changed topics.

"- He had a fever then. Wing Rot. It's mostly healed now, and he's civil if not friendly towards people he knows and trusts. It's just strangers, and it's not like he's done anything but defend his territory..."

As if to accentuate his point, Sherlock again fell silent, Cerioth's hand having moved away from John's personal space. The smaller Dragon still knelt on the floor, curled into a defensive posture. Truthfully the soldier was a bit relieved. There was something chilling in the elegant way in which the Chinese Dragon held himself, a sinuous grace. Like a dancer, only one that held concealed weapons in their costume of human flesh and bone. Dodge had her brows pinched in a disbelieving sort of way, hands on her hips as she assessed John from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. It was clear she did not take his word as truth. Her gaze was the cutting expression of someone extremely fed up with excuses. Her tone turned from mildly commanding to barking.

"Watson. Did it ever occur to you that in only a short while both you and your Dragon will be sharing the same breath with literally hundreds of other men, women and Dragons?"

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off before John could draw in enough air to respond. She was merciless.

"Though it's obvious you've gained his loyalty, the fact is that your Dragon must only have allegiance to The Crown. What happens if you bollocks something up and a captain rightfully hands you your arse, only to have his throat ripped out by two tonnes of scale and ice?"

John felt the tips of his ears turn pink from the tongue lashing, but he held his ground as fury rose in him, hot and metallic. He had endured insults before, and would likely continue suffering them. He accepted it was part of army life, and he was used to them from his childhood. It was just that they weren't actually directed at _him _that made him momentarily see red. He worked to keep his voice controlled as he ground out -

"I'd stop him before-"

"How?" Dodge interrupted smoothly, dark brow rising. Her face was stormy as she pointed to John's empty hands, their tension.

"Don't think I didn't notice. You don't have the remote to his collar anywhere, and yet he's kneeling like a kicked puppy. You don't seem to be the blackmailing type though, or one to resort to physical violence. You've been treating him like a pet haven't you? You managed to turn a weapon into a _lap dog_-"

Dodge might have continued, but was interupted by a ferocious snarl as both she and John were unexpectedly flung back, pinned defensively at opposite sides of the room by their respective Dragons. It was strange: one moment the soldier was standing upright, the next he was being tossed to the floor like a sandbag for target practice. John wheezed, breath knocked out as he looked above him. All he saw was the shadow of massive dark wings.

Sherlock's horns, tail and wings sprouted from his body, as he stood half-crouched in front of John like a vicious guard dog. Bestial sounds emanated deep within his chest, vibrating through the floorboards as his slitted eyes turned feral. His scales were a murderous black, mottled with electric-white rage. He was like a demon, a terrible guardian of a prize, and John came to the abrupt realisation that he was the damsel in distress.

Still, he didn't dare move.

Cerioth also transformed, although he was far calmer as he stood protectively in front of his mistress. It was the first time that John had seen a Chinese Dragon even half-transform, and he couldn't help but gape from underneath Sherlock's protective wingspan.

The smaller Dragon's figure had drastically changed. For one, his skin was no longer the golden tone it had once been. Now it was tinged a deep jade green in places, smooth scales running up his arms and legs and creating swirling, delicate designs on his cheeks and chin. More fragile than Sherlock's, but sleeker, like the belly of a snake. Like war-paint, it enhanced the darkness of his eyes as it curled in decorative whorls about his skin. His horns differed from Sherlock's the way that a deer's might from a bull's, daintier yet rapier-sharp, with the potential to be lethal if correctly used. They glinted wickedly under the lights of the living room. The Dragon did not have wings; rather, Cerioth floated as if suspended in mid-air, steam curling from his parted lips as he let loose a low warning growl towards Sherlock's hunched figure. The tea set lay broken on the floor, hot tea creating a molten divide, the moat that separated both parties. Dodge had her gut out, but the safety still on. her figure was tense and her gaze professional as she assessed the situation. Unlike John, who was upside down and crushed by Sherlock's tail, which curled around him possessively.

In the span of only a few heartbeats, John's living room had become a battle ground.

And John suddenly realised Dodge might be right, that his illusion of control over Sherlock was just that, an illusion.

For the Dragon's mouth opened, and from his lips a glacial fog drifted, filling the flat and making it descend into chilly tension.


End file.
